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Fuel


Each fever runs its course:
white heat,
unquenchable,
unrivaled.
No quick healing here,
just an endless grind:
ground down
blunted
broken
hunted
haunted
and plenty of
obsession.

Cast into the desert,
stung and sweating,
searching for something
(to hold onto)
searching for someone
(with an answer)
but in response,
the dismal quartet of words:
It's not my job.
It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time
tick away,
each additional second
a further weight to bear.
Longing for escape
is only natural,
for the fever burns,
consumes
conflates
conflagrates
and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,
tied together with twine.
Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

9 comments:

oldegg said...

The prompt words seemed to suggest a lot of pain and hopelessness. I loved the image of a bundle of firewood fuel for the fire.

March 23, 2014 at 4:52 AM
Jae Rose said...

Waiting watching wishing someone to change, to be 'better' requires a lot energy and fuel..i love the clusters of single words..reminds me of crisis times..playing alphabet games..remembering number plates anything just to fill the brain with different thoughts

March 23, 2014 at 5:34 AM
vivinfrance said...

Great word play.

March 23, 2014 at 5:42 AM
J Cosmo Newbery said...

"Today i am made of little pieces,
tied together with twine."

I can relate to that.

March 23, 2014 at 5:47 AM
annell said...

Yes, the bundle of twigs, nice image and layered meaning for me.

March 23, 2014 at 6:36 AM
barbara_y said...

Really like the sequence: ground down blunted broken hunted haunted

March 23, 2014 at 7:05 AM
Cathy said...

Very good poem. Save those little pieces, bonfires are great. Even if they are burning in your mind.

March 23, 2014 at 8:48 PM
Mama Zen said...

Outstanding!

March 24, 2014 at 3:35 PM
Alice Audrey said...

Sounds like Drew.

March 24, 2014 at 9:08 PM