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Plague

The bellows' breeze breathes life
The glowing embers flare
The shadows dance their flicks and weaves across the walls and stairs
The crucible glows hot
Its glittering contents glare
then melt and seem to disappear
as fragments fuse to lake of fire
The skin begins to ripple as the pockmarks start to rise
The grit begins to hit the surface like a plague of flies
but then the swarm is swept away by one skilled at his art
And could there be this sweep in me,
Refiner of the heart?
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4/11/2021 12:46:14 PM # 1.0.0.559