The Fire Inside

I, a rusty, old-fashioned wood heater,
Sit in the corner engulfed by shadows
As people fill me with rotten junk
Such as limbs of trees that once provided shade
Or other things that held some meaning to someone
Before being thrown into my possession.
They set my innards on fire and watch
As it begins slowly; building, churning.
Eventually, inevitably,
The rage inside intensifies to the extreme,
But my only real sense of release
Is the pillar of smoke slipping away,
Drifting into the atmosphere-
Pollution; if not in one sense then in the next.
Should anyone come too close
They’ll only be driven away in agonizing pain,
And should they attempt to reach deep inside
For any reason
They’ll only be left forever scarred, impaired-
That is, if anything functioning is left of them at all.
Then it dies, the vengeful fire,
With only mounds of gray, neutral ash left in wake
As evidence of the existence of the vicious anger,
The malignant hate,
And I am left an empty, dirty shell-
Tired and cold
And alone.