I fed fuel to warmth,
trading flesh for light,
smoke smothers from doused embers,
not the flames that are alight.
no one choked on fires,
it's riveting crackles prove
there is life even in pyres
till water sizzles to soothe.
there is less fuel to feed these burning,
hence more sense to let them die,
Sparks rekindle timbers
and with the fire it dries.
There is hunger in its wrath,
There is madness in its loathing.
There is is dark in its charred soot
but a fervour in its glowing,
it does boast of passionate ire,
yet passions' fuel it is not .
the oil of a warm body
is what it would feed on.
which life sustains death?
which fool would live in sickening
that would be unending
and hence the fire is starving.
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