Forging a Writer
Wordsmith am I.
My craft I know.
My trade I ply
by forge-fire glow.And scathing spark
oft touch my face.
Kiss’d in the dark,
I hold my place.My muscles quake.
My eyes are dry.
The heat does bake
the tears I cry.In silence, birth,
by hammer’s ring,
steel from earth
my soul I wring.By anvil’s clamour
I shape my art
I raise my hammer
and strike my heart.Of pieces that fall
I beat the blade.
My bread is gall
e’er I be paid.Pass me through fire.
Perfection I need.
A sword of desire,
for this I bleed.Softling dear,
burned I your dreams?
Shame, I can’t hear,
above mine own screams.
Two posts in one day? Say it ain’t so! Well, I was randomly inspired to write about what it means to me to be an author. I usually don’t spit out stuff that rhymes so this was interesting.