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Poetry: The Anvil
Your love forms me, in each arc,
In every swing of that hammer.
It shapes me, molds my incongruity,
Enabling the way I receive light.
The ring and crash upon the anvil,
Shower sparks of admonition.
Each a recognition,a reflection
of who I’m becoming with you.
Its force forged in the fire of love,
Molds my flesh in intricate ways.
Warming, invigorating my blood,
The sensitivity of your lips crafts my soul.
Gently rinses away the stains, straightens the creases
Enabling that which is immortal to recognize
Me reaching out anew ,
Embracing this moment, you, and laughing.