Hammer of 13itches

Thirteen witches weave through the moon-kissed night,
Into the iron heart of the blacksmith's plight.
The anvil, a creature of ancient, gnarled stone,
Lets loose a wail, echoed in steel-belly tone.

Their shadows, like whispers of midnight's own song,
Dance 'cross the floor where hammer strikes throng.
The forge, a fiery beast with a molten gold gaze,
Breathes heat into darkness, a tempest ablaze.

Each witch is a tempest, a storm-clad disguise,
Spells twining like smoke, where the iron vice lies.
With fingers of starlight and murmurs of lore,
They summon the fury of steel’s molten core.

The anvil screams, a discordant symphony,
A lament of metal, bound in chains yet free.
In the cauldron of echoes, their secrets unfold,
Wrought in the fabric of spells dark and bold.