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Anvil
Here I stand,
a part of the big man's grand plan
but the bastard can't be candid
so my damaged hands are damned to scramble.
What began as arms working in tandem
became appendages ending in frantic answers,
this romanceless dance a tantrum
just to get a handle.
Trying to meet the demands for a lantern
with only this wind stricken candle's wick flickering, unample.
Flash in the pan,
splash on the canvas.
Feet firmly planted on the land;
beneath, grass seeds they trample;
ankles buried between weeds and brambles;
an iron will the heaviest of anvils.
© Andrew Crawford
a part of the big man's grand plan
but the bastard can't be candid
so my damaged hands are damned to scramble.
What began as arms working in tandem
became appendages ending in frantic answers,
this romanceless dance a tantrum
just to get a handle.
Trying to meet the demands for a lantern
with only this wind stricken candle's wick flickering, unample.
Flash in the pan,
splash on the canvas.
Feet firmly planted on the land;
beneath, grass seeds they trample;
ankles buried between weeds and brambles;
an iron will the heaviest of anvils.
© Andrew Crawford
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