the forge

the beating’s done,
the sun has endured.

a metal river runs
the path of the eye

over dust turned to smoke,
even the atoms

turned on a lathe -
fitted in misery’s lattice,

pain-bright, rinsed in heat,
blinded, falling to the strike

of time’s tolling hammer,
crushed like husked heads

of Spring’s flower,
exhausted like the grass.

only the moon holds promise,
falling through the night,

distant as the memory of snow

until the sword of dawn
strikes sparks on the tinder

of morning, and
begins the burning, again

© Arin D. 2015