Vulcan
Vulcan
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his grief erupts by the molten cul de sac
for dying seams of rose and burlap
wipes the weeping stitches clean
and hammers out the mailed sleeve
turned from injured silk to infernal suit
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below the bursting ingot blows
the silver chestplate smokes against the anvil
charred and broken the mortared saint
his faceless helmet bent in concentration
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selfmade beneath the rough monk’s hood
his burnt fingers flex the chained glove
maker of the waxen smith
flame that drains the brazen armor
This is excellent. Thank you.
Matt, thank you for reading, and for your Shadow of Iris work.