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The Forge
February 27, 2011
The forge once burned with a cheerful fire.
Hammers that beat to the sound of the lyre.
Then war came to the vale, the times were dire.
And under the hammers, a new type of fire.
A fire that burned and scorched, and blackened;
The hot metal screeching, an ancient red kraken.
The sullen blacksmith dares not to slacken,
For fear of the rustling shapes in the bracken.
A thick blood-red haze clouds up the room.
Thick chains being made; bright red in the gloom.
Which bind up the blacksmith, in a self-made tomb.
Who fills up the forge, with hammers’ dark boom.
© Eileen M., Milford, CT
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JOIN THE DISCUSSION
This article has 2 comments.
CharlesDickens SILVER said...
on Aug. 1 2011 at 9:45 am
Thank you for commenting on this, I really appreciate your input. ESPECIALLY your constructive criticism. Too many people here think They'll offend everyone by saying something the slightest bit constructive. I appreciate it.
MidnightWriter SILVER said...
on May. 17 2011 at 3:06 pm
Somthing reads wrong with the third line. I think it's the second part of it, "the times were dire" It comes across as a little corny to me. Other than that I loved it. Once again, you've got beautiful imagery. I especially like the last stanza. It reads beautifully.
A forge during peaceful times, a forge making chains and weapons.
A metaphor for the heart.