Her Fiery Majesty


Above the furnace
A differential hell- fire
Bursting forth in her fury
Tonnes of metals having lost their way
wait in line for the molten salvation
With fifteen hundred degrees of correction

Below the furnace literally sang horrors
Something the elders call the Hum of Death
Thirty four thousand volts of unfiltered baritone
featuring souls of metals beyond correction
seeking the ultimate forgiveness

A distant peep reveals
turgid wires made of pure copper sagging
In obedience to gravity and heat
Bearing water and power to nourish her
This is a woman
who clearly does not joke with her rations

She possesses a temper so great
some call her The Consumer
Not of metals but of men
For on a spot not far away
Seven men met their end
With many more to come
… … …
We definitely know how
We just do not know when

Her job, she takes to heart
Correcting metals of their impurities
And she is darn good at it
She loves to feel in absolute control
– a fifth wave feminist if you will
But we silently pray she never knows
the true extent of her power
For she could make so easily
that which only exists in our religious books
a thermal reality