Obsession is the roaring forge of fire
where smelted iron armors anxious hearts.
With coals of envy, bellows of desire,
blind mercenary blacksmiths ply their arts.
Blood races as the hinges are connected,
eyes squinting closed with every hammer blow.
A snapping clasp, one more heart's been protected,
then tempered hard in white-hot embers' glow.
One more intrepid soldier marches willing
to join greed's rank and file until the end.
All eager for fear's judgments and hate's killing,
death smiles upon one more unwitting friend.
Yet, stipends paid to painlessly survive
are mortgages on what makes us alive.
What did you think
Comments
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I think your poem is wonderful! There is one tiny thing though: I could be wrong but I think there's supposed to be an apostrophe after the word embers in line 8. The glow belongs to the embers. I might be wrong though. What an incredible poem!
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Edited. Thanks. I thought I had done that, but must have forgotten.
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Nice write; I like your train of thought.
G.F.
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