I wasn’t born to be a poet.
With a name like “Smith,” one is only fit
to work over a hot fire with iron and steel,
and yet somehow the words chiseled their way
into the forge of my life.
The sound of my pen spattering paper
rung out like an imagined hammer,
shaping the letters of Apollo
into a work more spectacular
than those creations I’d made for Vulcan.
For though the glint of the ironworks
could be heard throughout the village,
it was the letters sung between drinks
that filled it with happiness
and when the time came for another pair of sons
to be whisked away on bloodied spikes
the solace of words meant more to the mothers
than the stained return of mail
to be buried with the bodies.
Did you like this poem? Let me know by leaving a like and a comment!
Want to keep up-to-date on all my posts? Follow my blog!
Want to see more of my work? Check out my blog’s site!
Follow me on social media! 🙂