The Whistling Scream

What shall we do with the unsung kettle?
Adrift with no oar,
no longer able to abide with emptiness.
Yet, unappreciative when filled,
the roar of a tap bringing foreboding rather than hope,
fear rather than happiness.
And, when the switch is flipped,
it broils.
O, what cruel Tartarean Gods
would subject something to this level of pain?
With sick mirth of observers, it screams.
A whistling scream,
hissing and weeping and begging,
echoing those cast amongst the fire and brimstone.
Tears turn to steam,
the screams are silenced,
and the tea is poured.