Just Writ

I may have bumped my head on an arch on my way to the gate, but

Falcon Forge

You must then arise early,
if you dare –
and can part the mists with a smile;
be able to spy a lonely heart
at distances set by enchantment
and clarity of the soul.

You need no wings to fly there,
do not fear –
yet walking slow will never do;
but prancing and skipping will allow
the vision to appear.

The forge stands on a chiseled rock,
once lightning struck –
and cleaved from fain mortal stone,
of which the earth and providence
are seen to be the same.

The shards were used to build a wall
this Abby here –
a link with creation of spirit,
cast beyond magic and willfulness
as sparks of pending dawn.

The smithy stands as a shadow,
nimbus of God –
a protection from the fury
of divine symphony yet unheard
except by poet’s dream.

The arm swings as a pendulum,
think metronome –
teathered to the fulcrum of when,
powered by our attention of now,
by choosing everbe.

The anvil is the Covenant,
the Agreement –
by which mind and soul and spirit
do mold by example and force of will
the future of mankind.

The hammer is all that sustains,
will not shatter --
when tested by humanity;
as justice, faith and simple kindness
are just a few samples.

And what of the need, the sword, the child,
so shapened there? –
Ah, that is where free will comes in,
and I can only remind that each test
has one end hot – the other cold.


papa faucon