Burning sun melting thoughts and shape and resistance until hammer strikes not once but a bakers' dozen of blows before casting me back into the flame that I cannot stand beneath and so I fail and fall not into arms but clutching hands that lay me down on pig iron and beat me mercilessly, crying, "More! More! More!"
Fetally I pray that I am done and made, shaped and honed into designed art form; my prayers go unheeded and the oven reopens its mouth to feed upon my anguished screams. The sledge rises and falls and all that does not belong - every gap in my chemical makeup - is compressed into a substance with no more weakness, no more ability to just fall apart, and no more chance to come undone.
My maker lets this world forge me into a man, taking all of me and purifying me, shaping me down into an instrument of peace and beauty: eternal and perfect after endless trial by fire. Refined. Steeled. Ready to cut down walls so as to build new homes - a new world - on rock foundations.
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