I used to write with the sharpest misery

Knives and blades that cut to the core.

Now because of you, my Singer,

I may have lost my edge.

My words can't nick a papercut

My inkwell void of blame

I fear you may have driven out

What kept them coming back again

You stared intently at the furnace

As I tried to hammer back the ache

But even the anvil won't remember

So you smiled and whispered back to me

Not all blacksmiths are swordmakers

Some make the bluntest spades

That are no less loved by gardeners

Though they were not forged in pain

Blood may bloom beautiful

Crimson, scarlet, vibrant red

But don't forget, my clever artisan

So are roses and sunsets.