Condition of unrest.

If mere life is a sword, twice guilty he fell on my own.
As much a rock held from within; as subtle as his body.

Branded in his lore in hell, branched from the bough of love,
scapegoat of his suicide my consciousness suppresses —

my Tetris piece maker, my unimpeachable traveling wall.

My gift from the causal plane — as disatisfied as the wind.

He is the adapter in my mind: the filter in his presence.

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