F. G. Denton

In implosion of gas something new will appear, In a bright little star, in its crucible-core— Quill is forged under pressure of its atmosphere, Cast from metal and filed as a seventy-four. Words of crimson will follow a sharp arrowhead, Stop the heart in a moment, a motion precise, Speak aloud of something to never be said, Keeping souls on the border of fire and ice. It will leave a red trace, hemoglobin as ink, It won’t bend when the weaker would break and resign, Little cracks memorize and appear in sync, Leaving permanent marks on titanium spine. Pile of drafts on the floor, a rejection—a mark, Stamp of failure, a sign of misfortunate test; Quill is dripping on paper, is striking a spark, Self-ignition—the substance that’s making the text. Ash to ash, dust to dust, wolfram quill—to the heat, To the fire that burns many flammable hearts. What was carved into words one can never delete: Formal shape forged in essence of finest of arts.