Writers are like blacksmiths,
Craftsmen of tools and symbols,
An understated vocation of creation,
Fashioning words into blades of warfare,
Moulding beauty in the form of iron,
Coffin nails for a corrupt world,

The bourbon essence of a writers desk,
Just like the charcoal stink of a forge,
It’s a place of sweat and heat,
Thoughts smelted into priceless ore,
Material is wrought into cutting art,
A trial by fire upon the page,

In place of a furnace,
Your work is shaped with a different heat,
The zeal of your message,
The ardour behind your stanzas,
Just as torrid as any flame,
Equally as divine,

Poetry is a steel all its own,
Keen-edged and unbreakable.

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