A month of cuts
gave way
to a year of scars.
On the outside,
there was armor,
like iron, charred,
by the bellows,
the embers,
and the blacksmith’s
hammer.
His fury roared,
an incessant clamor
of coals tapping
on the melting metal,
but I was not
the glowing iron
on the anvil.
I was the measure,
the assessor,
of the razor-keen edge
of his cutlasses
and the points
of his rapiers.
Success!
At year’s end,
the quota filled,
his blades were sharp
and the coals had chilled.
Hanging on the hook,
I, the tester,
hope to heal these cuts
by the start
of the next year.
©️ Obol, 2019.
Interesting point of view.
Thank you