Wordsmith

Forgive the bad poetry:

I sit at my furnace.
The heat is nearly unbearable.
I go about my craft with a relish.
Drawing up, I strike down hard.

My office chair squeaks against my steel-toe boots.
My anvil before me is a wall of white.
My hammer is leaking ink on my palm
My mind images the finished form.

First, one part forms up.
It is bumpy at best but still red-hot.
I strike afresh and new
The words realign a little better now.

Dipping it down in the cold water.
The sizzling saves my progress.
Left to Right and Top to Bottom
A coherent shape is slowly hardening.

Loading up my work yet again.
I mindfully work the bellows.
Sweat beads around my forehead
Sparks fly alongside aberrant adjectives.

The flames temper my steel.
My will resolves in character.
My character evolves in plots.
Editing its shape has no end.

Day in, I toil at my fire.
Day out, I check the piece.
The mettle is at its peak.
The final test is near.

My task is never at an end
Between fire and imagination
And steel and paper
I am the wordsmith at work