Temper by Paul Point

Temper seethed through

the Blacksmiths teeth


gritting their edge

to growl, to breathe.

Dark, in thought, raised

a sword from below


water drops glisten

caught a white hot glow.


Blade emerged from steel

for a matching shield,

it was his way to vent

feelings that were pent


and bent shards of metals

like wind might petals.


Blotting his brow across

a beaded wet gloss,

working and working

for hour after hour –


His temper forged forms

of protection and power.

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