Blacksmiths of the Divine


Art, poetry, inspired works

Created by the hand of man

Are but glimpses of that which cannot be conjured

In this dimension

Pieces of the heaven

Suddenly presented

But for a split second

In tarnished mirrors.

And we,

Unwitting Blacksmiths of the Divine,

Grope in the heat of our furnaces,

Addicted to the visions occurring therein.

We leap at the stars

With clanking and ungraceful chains

And metal forgeries

That seek to replicate

The vision we glimpsed,

This beauty and purity and truth

That descended without warning

And we labor

To birth crude, bastardized versions

Compelled by that which

We cannot escape

Or control.

It is Beauty.

It is Truth.

It is Life.

And we know this

Yet cannot know it as we would.

Incapable of being consumed,

It instead

Consumes us all.