Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Silversmith,
be ever-still
and listen…

for the hiss
of silver, glistening,
molten, poured within
the shape of a
woman or a man.

The mold was made,
broken, then layed
upon the bench
next to the cast off
bits, burrs, and
remnants of the
tarnished silver
from those better days.

Oh, the plans we’d made…

in blueprints, sketches,
designs of purity
through honest pleasures,
implements and treasures
made of silver, with
the mold to measure
what fidelity was wrought,
when attempting to
recast the shapes of
the things we’d lost
along the way.

Silversmith, can you work
with the impure silver
that I’ve brought this day?

 

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