Iron


I am that iron that is forged on fire.
Never in a furnace, but by human hands.
It is open flame that gives me strength
Even as it scorches my skin and burns my core.
Once hauled free of heat, I feel the hammer blows.
Once, twice, three or more, they come.
Denting and bruising, they also transmit
The strength, the fury, of the forger himself.
From fire and fury, heat and impact,
I feel the metal that is my life harden further.
Forces that set out to destroy can also create.
That which can weaken also can give strength.
And when the drop in cold water gives relief,
Following the final polish of the abrasive cloth,
I am hoisted into the air to display my self.
Both crude, yet elegant, plain but shining.
I outlasted the elements, and took from them.
I am iron. I last forever.


Peace and love,

Scot

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There are reasons I'm taking medication. They're called "other people." - Me, displaying my anti-social tendancies

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