Answer:
you can throw me away but I will always be coming back
Wind and cord combine, buzzing in the box. In all this we find, though to some the use is lost. What am I?
Golden treasure I contain guarded by hundreds and thousands. Stored in a labyrinth where no man walks Yet men come often to seize my gold. By smoke I am overcome and robbed then left to build my treasure anew.
What belongs to you but others use it more than you do?
Everyone asks for me but yet everyone hates to face me. For someone I am agony, for others I am relief! What am I?
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.