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The Forge

The forge once burned with a cheerful fire.
Hammers that beat to the sound of the lyre.
Then war came to the vale, the times were dire.
And under the hammers, a new type of fire.

A fire that burned and scorched, and blackened;
The hot metal screeching, an ancient red kraken.
The sullen blacksmith dares not to slacken,
For fear of the rustling shapes in the bracken.

A thick blood-red haze clouds up the room.
Thick chains being made; bright red in the gloom.
Which bind up the blacksmith, in a self-made tomb.
Who fills up the forge, with hammers’ dark boom.




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IntrepidRoseThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
May 17, 2011 at 3:06 pm:
Somthing reads wrong with the third line. I think it's the second part of it, "the times were dire" It comes across as a little corny to me. Other than that I loved it. Once again, you've got beautiful imagery. I especially like the last stanza. It reads beautifully.
 
CharlesDickensThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Aug. 1, 2011 at 9:45 am :
Thank you for commenting on this, I really appreciate your input.  ESPECIALLY your constructive criticism.  Too many people here think They'll offend everyone by saying something the slightest bit constructive.  I appreciate it.
 
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