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.
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.
IntrepidRose
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