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Hammers and anvil stand ready, but empty silence drones
A man enters silence making it cadence, rhythm and tone

The fires are lit and lick hot spit into a single melting shard
Muscled master and musical strikes shape the twisted bar

The work gives him worth as day bleeds away arterial, dead
The crescendo increases with the tempo unceasing, metal red

Sweat gathers quick, muscles hammer and twitch eternal
The conceit of a master makes perfection a metallic mural

The silence creeps back as the strikes slowly cease their attack
He looks at the piece, the perfection and memories come back

He glares at the piece hung in a sheath in the shed of his youth
The thought comes in as painfully as sin and blossoms truth

His arms are strong, just two flexible tongs, but his two eyes
Are better far as flaws reveal the near invisible cracks as lies

A shrieking rage of unfolded pain that rises higher and higher
His hands hold tight with rage a light as rod is inspected by fire

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