He mastered the pulsating lights by maneuvering hands like molds.
His hands advanced and shifted the warmth and the cold.
Skin so red burned by the flames.
Though he continued seriously; he wasn’t playing a game.
I Knew him well, or so I thought.
Magnificent arts, talent in his creations, many bought.
Watching to learn, to gain a tip or two,
Watched the master throw the flames that he then whistled and blew.
The art was purified from the scorch.
The blasted heat came from his torch.
The beauty of the diamond gently rested in his rough hand.
He smiled at me as he turned it back to sand.
I watched him nightly as he was a mere gypsy.
Who often, well, was more than tipsy.
He who torched the sand.
Which he then, created from his hands.
Amazing work the artisan mold.
While traveling from towns its told.
Dancing for a life and mesmerizing the ladies
Running away, capturing them for Hades
The gypsy man that stole women hearts.
From coast to coast, moved and played a game of darts.
The men that lost found their brides taken
Traveling across a country and soon to be forsaken.