Too Crowded Was Arena

I felt you, through your 
words. Tight and 
crisp. But you remained untouchable. 

For thousand of years 
a lity of valley 
cried, to get a dove's cooing voice. 

The musk deer will not 
leave its domain. Some 
poems were hungery of its hideout. 

An ordinary day of fall 
starts the inferno. Syllable 
by syllable in colors. 

The dilemma of drinking 
the hemlock at one go. 
How would I describe the ascending paralysis?