Wordsmith
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Monk Penman
She strikes the unformed syllables,
And hammers them in place...
And just as molten metal does,
They throw heat to her face.
On the anvil of experience,
She hammers though the night.
From her smithy's fires burning,
She produces sheer delight!
To the wordsmith, I'm beholden,
For her work doth make me dream...
Her lustrous works embolden me,
To be more than I seem.
Comments
I like the rhythm in that piece. Feels like a hammer beat.
@ Fidelia... Thanks, that was the intention.