Tales of Paper & Pen

I hold my hammer true and high and strike with thunder from the sky. I am no god, no conscience divine, but a man who strikes metal with steel and time. The drops of red that flow from my pores color my paths and open their doors. I strike, I bleed. I kindle, I feed. The flame of desire burns in my heart with fervor unbound. My furnace pulses with fire and life, yet it sneers at me with hunger and strife. Still, I strike, I bleed. I kindle, I feed. The sparks fly as I forge my tool to conquer my truest self. The tempered silver tempts me with grace, fueling ambition and reflecting my tired face. I strike, I bleed…I kindle, I feed. A moment of respite blesses my tired hands as I put down the hammer and release a sigh. Desire is like a phantom, ethereal and mean. I struck with my hammer to forge desire into action, to eradicate hope and turn it into my salvation. My fortune is silver, not gold nor steel. Worth and power mean nothing to me. I pick up my hammer and take a deep breath. For in this forge a phantom wish of fortune unfolds.