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.