comfort

the furnace contains sulphur;
its warmth combusts suddenly
beyond the hands of anyone.
for what does it burn, in such
a lonely room?

the flame remains, the furnace-
it does not respond to me;
my question remains in the
warm air.

it glows yellow even now,
the blackened glass panes of the 
windows still cold from winter.
its touch grips my hand, it knows
my fear; that the flame might go:
its warm air, its yellow glow-
my fear remains in the warmth.

the furnace still burns today,
the flame seems to grow each
time it reaches my eyes.
my chair holds my body up
i focus on the flicker
of the fire.