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.