The Necessity

This furnace has dwindled too long.
Time's appropriate for a reignite.
The cold mass must to be hot within,
In order for anything worthy to come of this.
It must be pine;
Oak burns too slow.
So let the dry needles roar,
And let the process obliterate most of what goes in.
It may be a waste.
Everyone around feels the heat.
But don't let them step in,
Or they'll end up like most of what comes out;
A sundering cinder of freckled sparkles,
That die in seconds.
Give it a few hours,
Days,
Decades,
Fuck who knows...
Until the pine is burned up,
And we have a piece of coal to draw with.
The markings will stay on the walls forever.
If not,
Then there's a mass of iron in the corner,
Hard as it was before,
Cold forever.
It may be a waste.
But throw in the pine anyway,
We need the coal.