Wordsmith

I dwell in the silence,

enveloped by the four walls

in this room day after day,

translating the weight

of what others might say.

Eyes on the patterns in 

the fractals of design,

where a ghost's

memories entangle with

mine.

I traverse a terrain

I plotted in ink,

tethered to a horizon

that forces me to blink.

I am not sculpted 

in the shape I thought I

might see,

but the weathered reflection

of who I must be.

Strike me against the

iron anvil at night,

and watch how the sparks

shimmer and take flight.

I am the furnace—

the heat in the core,

the branding iron

of syntax, forging the

landscape of love's lore.