Cold Fired Walls

There is fire in these walls,
Yet this room is cold.
This fire illuminates the darkness it withholds.
It beats all odds and fights the fathoming power,
It beats the sense that the mind can hold.
These walls may speak,
These walls may seek,
to unearth the incredible,
undignified,
somewhat explicit scenes.
These walls may haul,
These walls may squall,
to retrieve the burry nature,
horrid existence,
mysterious demeanor,
of the secrets it holds.
These walls burn within,
and make no sound,
These walls shield,
and keep that which quenches its depths.
There is fire in The Walls,
And only I can see it.
But cannot feel it.
I do not understand it.
Should I put it out?
Should I wash it out?
Or should I simply play the part of an ignorant bleeding stout?
Should I doubt?
Should I pout?
Or should I diligently offer an abundance of drought?
Drought of water that purifies, 
Drought of love that simplifies,
Drought of food that edifies the soul that this room upholds.
The room that these walls hold are not warm,
They are not welcoming...
Are not home.
Yet there is an overwhelming comfort.
The burning walls scare me.
They appall me,
yet I feel safe.
These walls may speak,
These walls may seek,
These walls may haul,
These walls may squall,
There is fire in these walls,
And only I can see it.
But cannot feel it.
I do not understand it...
So I will let it burn until that day they please to speak to me,
And tell me what they daily behold.