blacksmiths forge,
red hot rod,
hammered,
on her anvil.

quenched in oils
to hardness,
a rising flame
spatters.

pounding,
pounding,
taking shape,
the anvil quivers.

drenched in sweat,
from the effort,
it is finally done,
quickly cooled in fluids.

cooled now,
but still hard,
to the grinder,
to refine.

sharpening,
to an edge,
ready to cut,
smooth.

the anvil waits,
the testing cut,
through the tender flesh,
like velvet.

the blade glints,
as it enters the anvil,
all the way to the hilt,
here to stay.

till drawn
and wielded,
with an audible sigh,
by the king.