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The Anvil

This thing is a block of iron hammered to a tapered point on one end. It is bolted to a wooden stump to place it at a working height so the black smith or smithy can place glowing hunks of iron upon it to pound and shape the metal to something useful.

Fashioned are hammers, saws, shovels, plows; nails and screws and rings and chains.

Iron is a most malleable metal when heated and crushingly powerful when drawn into cold hard steel.

Its strength builds skyscrapers and bridges and ships the size of cities. Its forms are infinite and its compounds blend even to such a necessity that our own blood is red because of it.

 Formed into a triangle and hung on a string it rings with a resonance that only it can produce, but the sound I am most consumed by is the sound of a hammer driving down to collide with the anvil.

This clank, driving clank of metal to metal is haunting me now.

I want to be the hammer. I want to pound. I want to drive the metal into a shape that I desire and can use, I want. I need. But, when I swing the hammer I canít find the anvil. Like swinging in the dark with zeal and missing. No anvil to connect with. The hammer in its ark continues down only to find my shin and in agony I yell, then fall to the ground and cry in disgust till the pain subsides.

 I want to hear the clank of the hammer against the anvil because it is my desire to form the metal, I must form the metal; I must.

Iím hammering and in reality, Iím hammering this life, to form it into what I want but my hammer only strikes air leaving me broken at the shin. What else can I do but try again; so I will. I will try again. One day I may hear the clank of my hammer striking the anvil and my life may become what I want you see, my life might become what I want; for what I want is you.