The Log Fire's Plight
An open heart of impassioned rage.
I lick the cracks with fitful flame
Whilst jailer sits and reaps his gain.
He started this, my jailer man,
To warm his winter-bitten clan.
Conducting his claim he fields his right
To trap and tease my appetite.
There is no symbiosis here;
He wants for warmth and I, life, I fear.
The choice was his to found my flame
And his choice will kill me just the same.
I give him what he wants, his heat,
And I dance my pretty, crackling beat,
But I long to break these bars and flounce
My flickered gambol through his house.
Should I be grateful for my birth?
Why should I, I feel no mirth.
He traps the unruly to fulfil his need
And once he's done, he'll smother me.