i take shelter in your grooves
growing stronger in the curves
like whetstones smoothing and sharpening me down
to make a fine point

i wanted you to build with me
to push
me
up gently.

see if this rust
can turn into something beautiful
to see if rust
can be turned to gold

Gold shines just as brilliantly as silver or bronze
achievements for the greatest of them all
standing on podiums, they show-off their medals.
Well gold, silver, and bronze shine
just as much as tin or iron
even the cheapest of plastics can be made to reflect light.
Will your champion know what is really gold
or will they be distracted by how it glitters?
No, not all winners are fools.
But the best of them all can determine
the metal of their medals.

Upon a hilltop deep in the woods, there lies an iron box. Red and rough. They say that all the worlds secrets lay in this iron box. But no one knows for sure. Many have tried to open this box, all have failed. Men and woman. Boy and girls. All have tried to open this box. There is nothing to show for it though. Not even the tiniest of scratches have been left on the box by all the tools that have been used to try to open it. Today there is yet another crowd surrounding the red rough box that lays on the hilltop deep within the woods. People with axes and crowbars try their luck. Still, the box remains whole. A young boy makes his way through the crowd and stands before the box. An older man chuckles at him and holds out his crowbar. "Want to try?" asks the man.
The boy shakes his head and steps closer to the box. Gently he lowers his hand on to the top of the box, his eyes flutter closed. The box glows under his hand. The soft yellow light flows over the box until the whole thing is glowing that soft yellow. A click sounds and the boy pushes the top of the box off. The whole crowd is silent as they watch the boy. How he opened the box with a gentle touch.
"How did you do that?" the man with the crowbar exclaims to the boy.
"I just asked the box to open." the boy responds before he slips his way back through the crowd away from the box.
Quickly the crowd pushes and shoves, trying to get closer to the box to see what is inside the box. What the world's secrets are. But when they get to the box all they see is a single white feather.

The crumbling, earthen stones,
over which I clamber entrap the ghosts
of those who left before their time.
The cool, glassy tunnels through which I crawl
threaten to give, and bury my corpse
beneath the boulders and rubble.
The creaking catwalk to which I cling
sways ever slightly in the absence of wind,
teasing my toppling doom.
The mammoth steel drums
loom heads over mine, their rattling
and rumbling ceased decades ago.
The rotting apricot timbers
wedged into the endless darkness,
no longer support the tonnage of slabs
hoisted higher than my eyes will find.
The wrought-iron machinery
long stopped in time,
lies warped by the weight of gravity.
The soaring windows
spider-webbed and shattered,
litter the floor with their fractured bones.
And the walls and floors
and ceilings and doors
that once bustled with the liveliness of labor
lie silent.

Writing is my only hope
The pen’s blood-ink, it stains my throat
There’s no one there to fawn or dote
Surrounded by my poison moat
Isolated by the fray
Shackled wrists, I’m locked away
They stick around for just a day
Then turn and leave me where I lay
Draining; all I do is try
Sinking as they pass me by
Sometimes you just have to cry
But tears won’t come—I wonder why
My words are all I’ve got and less
For looks alone don’t pass the test
Hot, I’m not, just a hot mess
They like me, but don’t like me best

On  Saturday
people   go  to

  party  partly

not  give
salt
as    people  said.




O­n  Thursday
people   do  not
  give   any
iron   object.



It  is    blind  belief

    or  blind's
two   eye   operation
to  have  new  

    brightness.

Metallic kisses
Melt my lips
Each drop of crimson
Each silent drift
Blood spills
Spinal thrills
Moments of madness
Each smoke pour
Reach for the gods
You never asked for more

Blow, white winds,
With echoes of the past.
While in your ice
Red-hot iron is cast.

Now the smith comes
Dressed in night’s shade,
Taking up the hammer
From the table on which it laid.

Strike after strike
The fire melts the ground,
Leaving a smell of familiarity
And a well-known sound.

Truth is this!
Like a branding iron
Cast into the
Cold winter ground.