He melts steel,
with caustic appendages -
he shatters hearts,
guitar-strings,
and all the small things.

These hands of a working man,
are decorated with hard work and memoirs,
and they stroke the softest of skin.
She purrs -
he is hers.

His nine-to-five is well-spent;
while he is wasted,
working with fine metals,
sipping liqueurs,
and he forges what he can from disaster -

praying away his memories

he returns to his red ribboned Queen.