Done

he hungered for what will never be

an uproar only he could hear

his ardor quiet as a soft snow

a phenomenon known as done

his temper now chilled by tears

a wrath of thirst hurting bone

a fever rising with a hopeless urge

a canyon of hollowness turned hard

he remembered the insolence

the appetite for ego and greed

as he walked away sobbing inside

the emptiness filled quickly

much like hate does

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