There is only the sound
of the bellows.
As my dented, tarnished,
precious, golden heart,
is tossed into the fire.

To be wrought into
something new?

Was the shape it was in,
the reason it was discarded?
Was it no longer desired,
or charished?

As it turns molten,
the unique, sentimental shape,
it held for so long,
is changed forever.

In the FORGE it is waiting,
a beautiful shimmer of light,

ready for the mold.

To be fashioned into a charm,
that someone can love.