A canvas dance, a silent symphony, where colors speak louder than words, capturing the soul's whispers with a brushstroke.

I get hot, release steam people wait patiently for me to finish. What am I?

I stop arguments before they start by politely saying, your yard ends here.

Quick to serve, a culinary sprint, often wrapped in paper with a side of guilt. It thrives in golden arches and crowns, tempting in its convenience, yet fleeting like a fast-paced race.

Where forests stand proud and tall, I answer with a crashing fall. Each swing resounds with a thunderous crack. Who am I with an axe on my back?