Crucible

It was so dark, so cold; always the same 

till spark, till pain made fiery flames.

Crimson, flaxen colors disgrace my face

as fizz and hiss, they burn one like a lace.

Its greed and cruelty fuel the boundless blaze.

Scorching verve turns home into a great haze.

It never leaves, for it’s part of one’s soul.

Fire burns over with pain in one’s life whole.

Although with death, anguish, and dread it brings,

it once was dark and cold ‘till pain made wings.

Without searing toil forging “dear” to ash,

Where would be warmth, be light: joy without sash?

Stronger it is; so it’s worth: never to tame.

’Till spark, till pain made fiery flames