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The Blacksmith

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Taps the fingers
Of his mechanically
Dexterous hand on the table
His head turns with a sharp clink
Inspiration is
What he yearns for
He turns
Toward the sheets
Of metal
He lifts his hammer
To their
Un-luminous
Un-lustrous
Un- effulgent
Exterior
The ever
Subservient metal
Yielding to
The hammer’s
Iron reprimands
Out of the clamor
Comes a
Most desirable creation
A man
A tin man
The Black Smith
Kneels beside
The sterile
Metal figure
And pulls
A golden pocket watch
From his trouser pockets
And stops to admire
The sweetly condescending
Ticking and tocking
Of the watch
The blacksmith gingerly places it in
The desolate crevice of a chest
And says to the tin man,
“I give to you this.
A heart,
Not a sword
Nor other
Incongruous weapon
For thy enemy
Can server
Any sword
And prod
Every chink of armor
, But my dear,
What I have given you
Can quell,
Subjugate,
Vanquish
Chisel and gnaw
At the loose skirts
Of the enemy of time
‘Tis a heart,
My boy,
That I have given you’




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