“Thy new heart hast been born from sacred tree. It feedeth off thy will, and shall sustain thee through it. It shalt turn thy form into a worthy vessel for its swollen gloat. Yet, I prithee; a word of caution. Feed its ravenous hunger with all thine ambition, and behold as thy fruit explodeth, spreading its seed in a glorious scatter of flame. Shalt it blossom, the fruit will turn thee and all else into ash.” There was a reserved calmness to the Blacksmith’s poetics, a sense of reverent beauty to the bomb that filled my chest. Be it due to the nature of this frenetic realm or because of my
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