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