Tender

 

I'd be a steaming locomotive,
    Tender packed with coal
My fire would burn, the flame releasing
    Power through a spool
Of whirling steel, with engine oil
    Lubricating all.
And when the tender emptied, and
    The dark began to fall
I'd, satisfied, lie down: tucked in
    A roundhouse for a shawl.
   
And there, would cease - my firebox sated -
    Hollow and sublime.
My fuel away inside a tippler,
    And hours and hours of time
To sleep towards th'Phoenix flame
    Of morning's engineer,
To dream of water in my boiler
    And the Coal-flame's sear
Across the ceiling of my heart --
    Now cold as an ancient bier.
   
To be reborn, a heart must burn
    Then cease to burn in death.
My tender parts, shut up too close,
    Can't burn -- for lack of breath.

(Image by Osgoldcross)