The blacksmith hammers away at the forge;
Strike after strike on the anvil he blows,
As every fault, flaw, and frailty is purged,
Once an iron bar, now a crude blade flows:
______________________________
Never before has the smith worked so hard,
To make something he truly desired;
Never before have his hands been so charred,
Perfecting something of which he's tired:
______________________________
He hones the edge to less than a hair's width,
As his work is quenched in blood, sweat and tears;
He who cuts himself, makes a poor blacksmith,
But his shrieks are not for his clients ears:
______________________________
Why does he sharpen a blade he'll not use,
Perhaps his pain is casted for his muse?
YOU ARE READING
Shackled Sonnets: A Collection of Poems
PoetryA collection of sonnets about that which I shall never have. A girl I love, but she loves another. I have only recently been reading and writing poetry because of her, so hopefully, my writing will get better as time goes on. Check back for a new so...
