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.