The Forge
A journey usually begins With a whimper not a bang
So in this adventure I shall begin in a most unusual way
This is a story of the forge, a place that dreams are made
At the core of the Verse there is a place of beginning.
From stars to language and even ideas and dreams
That drive intelligent beings from start to end.
In this forge a man works the cosmic bellows
That stoke the flames that fuel all that is.
He is known by many a name and title.
But in this story he is just a man.
Through his careful watch and craft he toils.
His work is less labor and more an art.
Because from nothing itself his creations come.
A thing that is worthy of at least a wayward thought.
The man's age is something entirely incomprehensible.
He has forged the verse again and again.
Being there to see it born.
And then again to turn it back to the dust it came.
His hammer is the paragon of originality.
And his anvil the gate to creation.
His body a collection of nothingness and dust.
His mind the first of all things.
The man will continue to work for ages to come.
And many more after that.
So when you look to the speckled skies above.
Look for the celestial Forge at work on high.
And bask in the glow and warmth of existence.
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