The sadness of being happy

A tiny pang at the back of my throat,
Squeezing the air with warm gold hands.
You chase away the cloud of the blue note,
Then bring your own as no one understands.
Your present is warm but not continual.
This thought brings silver fear and turns air cold .
Fear gets big as you're time's not annual.
Gripping your hands I wish your gold was sold,
But your gold will pang true in time of need
And your hands will hold me with pure gold warmth.
It's just waiting through the silver of Greed
To see that you don’t lay on a true north,
So now you go but you refilled me in
Your gold now mars my hidden cracks within.

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