The Persona's of the Author

The Persona's of the Author
 

I am a blacksmith of worlds
Working night and day
To document worlds of fay
With creeks and valleys
Monsters and bones
Trickster imps and little gnomes
All cast into mine iron sword
Who shall know me well
But mine secrets it shall never tell
 

I am a wood carver of plot
With all its beautiful spoils,
Carved by my hopeless toils
With secret subtle intricacies
Of heroes’ plights
Of peasants’ fights
Of nobles’ sorrows
All holders of my greatest fears
All reminiscent of my hateful tears
 

I am a glass artist of imagery
Forming scenes for all to see
Of knights and angels about to flee
Of mad kings scorning the throne and the crown
Of ogres and titans slain
Of spirits lingering above the mortal plain
Of princess’ who forsake their name
Of my sobs and sorrows
Of a dim specter on ghastly morrows
 

I am a sculptor of character
Shaping the fibers of being
I sculpt the traits worth seeing
Creating the apparitions of beauty
I carve the angels of peace
Forming the old man and his loving niece
I bring into being the madmen who kill
Fabricating the lovers who hide away
Hidden in the blacksmith’s bay
Hidden in each is a flaw
Something I wish to hide
From all those who wish to chide
 

I am a weaver of fate
That of the fiends, that of the lovers
That of the liars who hide from all others
That of the forest, that of the trees
That of the bear, the rabbit, the fox
That of the shepherd curled up in the box
That of the end, that of the new
That of the ice, that of the snow
That of the pain that can only grow
 

I am the conman who tells all the lies
The devious madman who wears the disguise
I am the blacksmith who strives to know
What lies in the mirror that delights him so
I am the wood carver with such a keen eye
Who lets the blood rain down from the sky
I am the glass artist who makes it all bright
So my sorrows never see the light
I am the sculptor whose work never ends
Hiding my flaws from all of my friends
I am the weaver who values control
Reaping the goodness from my only soul
I am the peasant, the killer, the king
The weeping bride who tosses her ring
I am the worlds and the stories they tell
Striving to save myself, the angel who fell
 

review links  

https://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8j5u9m/garden/dz04etb/  

https://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8jfxzv/doctor/dz03vsn/