Not Fiction

I remember a day buried in the past,
The day into a dream you breathed life.
Perfectly pure, not a single spell cast,
A promise of paradise to eclipse my strife.

Our path seemed the only road to follow,
Our beautiful future I witnessed in your eyes.
A future where warm light would always glow,
Where I fell for you anew at every sunrise.

I remember the hour I held you close,
Time had stood still as my heart raced.
An emotion so great has no word in prose,
To interrupt that hour I was in no haste.

I remember a day as if it were only yesterday,
A bird sang to the sky of your strange news.
It bid me to find and hear the truth you say.
I felt a crack as my heart's halves grew loose.

I remember the moment I spoke as if skies were blue,
To the news of the bird you gave your collaboration,
Your hand is held by another, you said it is true.
You had seen it as light, I can still see the scorpion.

I remember all the days gone by till today,
I see your arm my love, it's badly stung.
Take mine my angel, let me make it okay.
Leave the scorpion in the past, let our song be sung.

Bring back to us the shifted and delayed future,
Let me reveal to your eyes, the glory of you,
A scorpion can't, it can never be in his nature,
And mine, doesn't know how to stop loving you.

Breakfast

The long night was taken away,
By the sacred Sun's rise at East.
My stomach groans at new day,
This groan calling for a fine feast.

But I've only just woken and the air is cold,
My fingers were numb and my toes did shiver,
What peril could another few moments hold?
I thought as I held the blanket ever closer.

The air was far too cold, quilt could barely suffice.
I need the true magic to stop heat dying away,
My arm searched till memory made it realise,
No magic lay with me to help brace the day.

The memory cast a dark shadow on my mind,
As an icy breath left my lungs and my nose.
What feast could groaning stomach hope to find,
In the house where no magic nor angel ever goes?

Each second sent my heat to a deeper plummet,
The numbing fingers now a frostbitten burn.
Survival demands breakfast with an iron bullet.
Every day till to this house, heat and magic return.

Blacksmith - II

This furnace had never burned hotter,
My back is sore from shovelling coal,
This furnace's stomach holds hell's fire,
I must forge once again, my mettle's soul.


No mistakes now, the damsel is watching,
Ignore the aching back and place the metal,
It turns to clay in that which is scorching,
I need to forge it right, I'm watched by my damsel.


Let the mettle lay with fire as if they were lovers,
On the flaming furnace bed, they lay as one.
This mettle of mine seeks the highest of fires.
To receive fire's gift, the glow of the Sun.


Ready the anvil and ready the hammer,
The eyes of the damsel are upon me tonight,
This is life and truth, no lies, no glamour.
Each hammer strike emitting sparks of sunlight.


My mettle groaned and howled as it bent,
My arms grew weary but I would not rest,
My mind possessed by my damsel's scent,
Could not stop till mettle was bent best.


The mettle in water turned half the trough to steam,
As if a ghost exorcised from mettle left for the skies.
Burnt and bent, my mettle smoked a grey stream.
Now tell me my damsel ,is my mettle right in your eyes?

Blacksmith

The furnace rages with hottest flames,

Flames I stoked and sought to create.

This is my profession, my life, no games,

Each sword or dagger I forge must be great.

The furnace now burns just hot enough,

Hot enough for my metal in heat’s heart.

This is no mere metal, this is doubly tough.

To forge and bend my mettle, it is an art.

The metal glowed all over with orange heat,

This must be magnificent, this is no mere metal,

The anvil and metal screeched, at each hammer beat,

I must bend this mettle, for I dream of my damsel.

The dreams bound in darkness and fantasy,

Were maybe enough in my youth and fear,

But my hammer beats mettle absent mercy,

To pull those dreams from cloudy castles in air.

The mettle seems to be forged and bent well,

Anvil and hammer strike do make a fine team,

Rest the mettle in water, remove the heat of hell.

Hear the mettle hiss and birth a cloud of steam.

This feels right, the mettle feels fine,

The mettle may be just right enough,

For the damsel to want to be mine,

Beyond my dreaming’s cloudy puff.