The Forge

The iron was cold once, Soft under the hands of time, A shape unmade, undefined, Drifting in the quiet, bending in the wind.

Then the fire came.

Molten heat, searing truth, The hammer of loss, the anvil of pain, Striking down with purpose, with force, Shaping, hardening, burning weakness away.

She stood before the flame, Shielding herself from the sparks, Fearing the fire, fearing the weight of the hammer, Clinging to comfort, resisting the change.

But I did not step back.

I met the heat, Let the fire strip me bare, Let the hammer find its mark, Let the pain sculpt something unbreakable.

And now, forged in trial, Tempered by every mistake, I do not bend. I do not yield. I am steel where I was once clay.

She does not understand this power, How the fire did not consume, but created. How the pain did not break, but built. How I am no longer the man she could hold in her hands.

She speaks of comfort, of shelter, of safety. I speak of fire, of trial, of growth. For I have stood in the forge, And I know—

A blade is not made in the cold.