The Fuel of Hate

 QWW

Wonder,

 What if cars ran on Hate?

The poison tendrils of gas fumes detaching their grinding grip and receding,

Defeated,

 From the desecrated steel landscape.

Never again would gas transform plastered face men,

 Into herds of gnashing teeth and rolling whites.

Hate,

A source with no termination.

Never running short.

As effortless as conjuring a memory,

Sparking the emotion of Hate,

Ignighting and kindling,

A lever,

A wheel,

An engine.

Focusing on that hatered,

honing it.

Learning to feel the consumption,

 Like a wash of fire.

Warming like the slowly relenting tenderness of well- worn gears.

Abruptly,

 The steel skyline vanishes,

Drowned in an irrepressible fire.

The fever going,

 Day and night.

Machines,

Factories,

Cars.

Eternally consumed,

No going back.

Can't stop.

Giving into the allurement and letting the fire take over the spark.

It awakens the sleeping.

It exhumes the dead.

The tightly tailored steel skin begins to shrink,

Itching,

Burning,

Begging to be free.

The poison is deep within,

Buried in layers

Hidden underneath pretence.
Trapping the Desecrated.

Manipulating faces into animals,

Biting.

Barbaric.  

Wonder,

 What if cars ran on hate?

Would hate mangle the skyline more than before?

Wonder,

 What if cars ran on hate?

Now,

 Wonder,

What if cars ran on love?