Riveted

The armours we wear are not gilded. Polished metal could never make for the strength that is required to step in arenas we know as playgrounds.Rusted iron, with chinks welded in repair. Edges worn , cutting through those who rub against at the slightest possibility, not just of a conflict but of a proximity too uncomfortable to leave to chances.Loath the fact that out of our playgrounds the armours are still riveted not to bodysuits but to our own bodies.

Our inseparable molds that would break with the contents that fill them. Paranoid we are! Paranoid we will be! Untangling and tangling what lies ahead,taking everything by the violence of our passions, weaving and then knotting the threads when they lie still as prospects.

Only the Paranoid Survives.
 How does the Paranoid sustain?

Ever sick but never dies......

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.