The Wordsmith - Apr 4, 5

Yes! day and night, inside my roaring shop, pounding my heavy hammer ceaselessly against the hardened anvil Poetry, I ply tough steel into a pleasant shape. Working words cleansed of cheap and easy trope which would debase my art’s due quality, I craft a blade, or else a spade, to be the prying prod of clever penmanship. But sometimes, in the silence of sorrow, my forge sits still, uncluttered and unmanned. My arduous tasks exhaust me, and I say “Let what labour’s left be done tomorrow!”— For when my mind and vision wallow bland, It’s best to rest and recover for a day.