adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Anvil, a poem

Anvil

I’ll lay life on my anvil
and hammer it into shape;
forge my dreams like swords,
tempered in the steaming
blood of my desire.

Into the heart of the fire
goes each rejected blade,
broken, to be reborn,
in songs of steel and flame —
hear the hammer ring!

Hear tomorrow sing
of all it can become,
transmuted. Blue-hot healing
leaps upon the hearth.
Lay me on the anvil.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

After the silliness of the last post, I had to put something here that takes itself perhaps a little too seriously!

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