I watch the black smith work, his hammer battering the hot metal that he will turn into a horse shoe, and I think of you, this historic vision in this historic town, already long out of date, save that you do to me what the black smith does to metal, flesh exposed to the scalding heat to be molded into something more malleable as to fit your needs, we on our knees, a flash back to a herald age when even the mightiest of nights succumbed, jousting at each other for the glory of your affection, your hammer reshaping each when released from the heat, metal bent to your will, although still strong, each blow making us more into what you desire and we grateful for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment