BB Grey–musings

“The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices… a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own.” — Rod Serling

I swing the hammer against the anvil of the day,
each strike a clang of bone and will,
smithing the sword you’ll wield to slay.
Sweat drips, a molten penance,
forging edges sharp with my breath,
knowing the day you walked away.

The bellows roar, my heart’s own flame,
iron bends beneath my calloused hands—
a blade for you, etched with my name.
I temper it in tears, in endless hours,
a labor vast as a sky of ash,
blind to the shadow it empowers.

You take it, gleaming, from the forge’s glow,
my craft turned cold in your grasp.
The steel sings—a traitor’s hymn I know—
and strikes me down, a wound too deep,
its point the mirror of my trust,
my blood the ink where your footsteps creep.

The anvil cools, the hammer falls still,
sweat dries to salt on a broken frame.
I repent the fire, the skill, the thrill,
for the sword I shaped has carved my end—
and you, cloaked in my ruin, walk away,
a silhouette against the day’s descent.