115

Twin Flames
Alice Brewer

If in the crucible of Sorrow's
flame
Thy soul be thrust, to mould,
A glistening drop of metal is
distilled.
Nobility's fine gold.

But if in Misery's retort
thou'rt cast.
So ruthless that fierce flame
A sterile wreckage - charred
and black is left -
A soul both blind and
lame.