Chord

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This will be a song
Written slowly with red
On parchment scroll 
In an ancient language
For a foreign instrument
By the blind forced to see
In the dark

This will resonate 
From the hammer, anvil and stirrup
To the prefrontal cortex 
Ending with the heart
For some
And for others 
Those fleeted fifty-two bones

Pathos

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Mock the freeze

Write of it

Photograph it often

For when its sharp refreshment fades away

Your comfort from the warm, high ground 

Your concern kept at bay

Will taste of only salt 

And tears

And grey

Sheer

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Yes and I did not sleep warm last night
While each sentence you speak thinks now it holds leverage with my sleepy senses
In fact it holds none
My muddled thoughts aren’t muddled at all
They are determined
To not be 
Taken
Advantage
Of
So I can clearly tell this
I love who I see
A weakness of mine I’d not trade as a weaker one would
Though I marvel at the back 
And forth
I don’t tire
It is why you still stand 

Medaled

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I have been fire 
Blazing at life

I have been metal
Molten

I have been anvil
Stalwart and staid

I have been hammer
Boldened

What now remains
What more to be

When then will I feel
Refined

Fissures apparent 
Brittle, breaking

Blacksmith have mercy
Be kind