inhuman builders, artists with wings thousands and thousands of tiny little things i am their walls, their floors and their ceilings if you can harvest me, it's a humble way to make a living

I am a tower built of layers, held between two matching walls. I’m the hero of the lunchbox, but I fall apart if you lose your grip.

Golden soldiers in rows so neat, waving in fields under the sun's heat. In harvest time, they make a treat, from summer's warmth, we eat their sweet.

I sound like something that beats in your chest, but I’m made of stone and warmth instead. I glow in the center of where you reside, often called the heart of the home, warm and wide.

i dont burn anything... i may go out unless you throw wood into me, i may cook things if they go in me for long enough