My soul has been pricked
and my heart has been pushed
Blue, beautiful fire
Blue-Green, the hottest places in my soul’s furnace
Demands for justice in hot tears role out from that bloomery
the malleus drops
and the spark flies
igniting the willing furnaces around.
Who will be the Stoker, who will light the fires?
My inactivity is not a possibility
any shallow existence not tolerated
the flames lick up against the edges of my form
burning away the nonsense and fear
In my eyes the fire back lights
and glow narrow and steadied
my voice picks up among the others
instead of the cacophony of a 1000 hammers falling at random
we rise
we drop
we rise
we drop
together our voices
rhythmically
deliberately
amplify the others
what begins in the furnace of the one
is now the fire of the people
