Into the Wind

My Stove

Magical surface with four black eyes
Knobs that control its heated vice
Each mark on the dials a strength
That shatters and breaks free on its own

Splatters of oil dance on its cheeks
Yet through it all this thing is not weak
Made of iron and steel and ore
It plows through the danger and onward soars

Below the surface it has a mouth
That eats up dishes meant for a king
And spits out the leftovers in new form
Giving of sustance it keeps us warm

Now this thing in my kitchen sits
And sees me three times a day without fail
My trusty stove I cannot live without
My friend in the kitchen and household