Who knows what force lay this forge at my feet
with it's heated irony, steely anger that burns
beneath char blackened eyes of dispair
The hammer I wield grows stronger with each swing
of hatred in my soul, quenched in bitterness, that
cools the red hot fires of hope within my listless hands
calloused by years of fire and pain,
I grip the handle of this life, the strength in me waning with
each spark thrown clear of the blade I create.
The blade that I have slaved over for so long,
I have forgotten it's name, or why I began making it in
the first place, with each new spark burns another glint into
my sightless eyes, each submergence in bitter waters
tempering my soul, etching it's malevolence into me.
I forge this blade of hatred for my last battle, not because
I want to win, but because without death, there can be no life.