Molten
HEALINGIDENTITYSELF REFLECTION
I watch the furnace breathe,
its mouth wide open,
spitting fire hot enough to turn sand into a heartbeat.
Molten glass
a river of heat too wild to touch,
too dangerous to tame bare handed.
It drips, it sags, it threatens to collapse in on itself,
but I turn it,
slow, steady,
breathing my rhythm into its chaos.
The rod spins like a second pulse,
a reminder that creation
always dances on the edge of destruction.
I shape it, coax it, whisper to it,
as if beauty only listens when you risk getting burned.
What was once formless
fragile and violent at the same time
stretches into clarity.
A curve, a sphere,
a body of light frozen in motion.
That’s the secret
the fire doesn’t just destroy.
It reveals.
It teaches you that anything broken,
anything raw,
can be melted down,
reformed,
and pulled into something beautiful
if you’ve got the patience to stand in the heat.
