How does it feel to have a fire that doesn't burn?
As I detach and turn the page
I have been tainted with empty rage
I'm aware of the heat as the ember blazes
But I'm not warmed,in unphased phases
To the point I speak in paradoxed phrases
I feel all and nothing,my heart is bored but amazes
As my logic cools my heart,my feelings heat my mind
Into all melds but separates to form sublime
A flavor I detest, a flavor I enjoy
The most shallow abyss most capable to destroy
I have tasted rage and swallowed it
Digestion,perhaps excretion to follow it?
Or Is a stipulation of my detached maturation,constipation?
If my fury is full,will I be vacant?
If I glower blankly will I be blatent?
A soul frozen over by icy inferno
A mind heated stirred and churned slow
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