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the blacksmith’s heat

The orange reflects the ember
The sweat protects the sender
Metal is burned to perfection
Twisted and turned to correction
The shape defines its form, remember?

Water to cool for rest
A breeze to fool the zest
He examines the faults
Inspects the famine and halts
To feed the fire its regrets.

The flames swell inside
My spirit’s hells aside
He discovers my worth
And recovers my birth
This evening I’m yours to hide. 


About R. Ward

A husband, father, teacher, and struggling man of God.

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