Burnt umber,

forest fire of feverish flames

whipped into autumn inferno –

sear,

melt,

char,

ashes bleeding ashes,

rust begetting rust.

My soul blisters in the heat,

but  this wounded heart must be cauterised,

and only this furnace

can stanch the flow.

I cringe,

hurl myself from this altar,

scream in rage and pain –

but I know the Hands holding me here

are those of the Master Sculptor.

My material must be

malleable,

purified,

welded to the frame

or subtle inclusions,

dross in the cells,

will undermine the structure.

The fire consumes,

 a rage-driven hiss –

dare I trust its heat?

Blacksmith knows

at what temperature I will be tempered,

at what point the slag will burn away.

I can’t see where I fit,

where life becomes Art,

where pain produces product;

I only see these flames.

Blinded,

blistered,

glowing with heat,

my will is forged,

my frame is wrought,

I become

Iron.