He resided in his own abyss of lonesome thoughts,
Acquaintances and kin wondered but never asked what.
His conception, distinct and his heart aslow,
Contentment from his life had been stolen long ago.
As he sheltered himself from affection and dear,
He gave permanence to a stale state of fear.
He couldn’t be shaken from his clouded vision,
He comprehended things with a different precision.
His words were spat in cold hate and morose,
A life of melancholy and solitariness he chose.
One would think they’d be used to the cold,
And I thought only my resistance was low*.
                                                                ­               - Sahej Marwah.