Hammer and tongs, pit of flame,
your leathery apron striped with pain--
Forearms of fate, brows of despair,
you melt and reform me with impersonal care.
Joy and light have substance no more--
While anger and rage are only a spoor
on a trail of discovery, or perhaps one should say,
the road to promise in the dawn of a day.
All of my deeds wrapped neatly in wax
tossed into your hopper without any thanks,
for who gives a damn for the deeds of a life
forged in once-gleaming metal, but etched with strife?
So with no great ado, it comes to a rest,
this drama I wore over shouders and chest.
I am stripped of my cape, my cloak and my hat...
Nothing left now but soft bones-- no skin, no fat.
Karma exposes the shadows and glares,
and forms comely skeleton dolls for the masses--
then tags them for resale
and claims... "Handmade."