The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.

For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.

Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.

The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering  like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.

The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.

As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.

Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.

The blacksmith

He sees what he wants and he approaches it
Strikes a deal with this item
And starts his work on it

'baby you are looking fat' he says, 'why don't you sign up at the nearest gym'
'baby, this make up is a bit much, why don't you cut down on it'
'baby, you should dress like this, I prefer mini skirts to long trousers'
'I don't think I like your friend, she makes me feel uncomfortable, stop talking to her'

He makes all this changes and more to his new item, looking now at the finished product, he detests the works of his own hands, but why, he created this, he made and shaped this item into his own liking, lo has he outgrown it?, like a little child, has he found a better thing to call toy?, like a blacksmith, he'd leave the works of his hands to attend to a new one....blacksmiths are not contented, they strive for perfection, the perfect sword, the perfect shield, the perfect girl.
Little do they know, to be perfect is to be contented.

Pray you don't come across a blacksmith :)