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.

Mold me a helm of platinum.
Plate my neck in ornate roses
and arc both ******* in tongues of steel.
Spill an hourglass of silver sheets
to silhouette each torso curve.
Sculpt iron vines over each hip.
Caress my keep in chastened press;
form gold like liquid down my legs.

Engrave a crest of two joined doves
upon my hexagonal shield.
String leather sheathes with your golden hair.
Equip a morning star with spires
that mock the dullness at your rest,
yet forge my sword of diamond strength
formidable as your excited state.

Look on me where I stand armored.
Embrace away my fancied suit.

Please…
lay me down, Love, gently Love,
and place a flower in my hair.