He stands still with time
realizing the conversation, in his mind
His grip is slipping, barely holding on as his rage engulfs him
No longer a fuel for life, but rather an internal holocaust
It should feel so hot but yet, it feels so cold and alone
Is it this impending loneliness that he mistakes for anger
Or is it real, more real than what little he has felt in so much time
Despite times of joy, no true happiness fills this ever so cold void

Longing to feel whole again
He understands what the sorrow and the pain once felt was
It was good, good to feel so deeply, even fulfilling
The self-actualizing revelation of the balance of emotion
that all the bad feels so good because it feels like something real
Just as real as the warmth that is its predecessor
But, like all good things, they've both come to an end
First the warming love and joy and now the cold thus leaving the void

The cold had crept in, and the loneliness began to rest
and in this hibernation, it has stayed
with it, are the scars of a better yesterday
When he felt the true glow and warmth
and even when he had felt the darkening sorrow
At the time, the sorrow was freezing, but now no more
as both are more appealing then feeling so hollow
Nothing feeling whole anymore, nothing but the hole inside

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