Baptized by kilowatts and ohms, what's left is waiting. The embers rise like incense carry praryers for what is next to come. Carry me on silver wings to meet with vulcan. To be forged anew and rise again above arms of fire. Holding this common language in our hands. Find solace in the landscape. The best laid plans carry the weight of an entire season's hope. The city waits with shattered skyline for its missing hero. To lay low those beneath and cast aside the restraints of hopless inertia as winter's chill fades below me. Now we are silent, holding this common language in our hands. Find solace in the landscape. Watching, waiting, holding on to Victory's kiss. Like alloys we shape, bending ourselves to our needs. Bend with the hammer to the anvil of self. The smithy screams with exertion as the flames drive out impurities. Bend the hammer to the anvil of self. The soul screams with recreation bathed in the furnace of ascension. Winter's chill fades below me.
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