His greatness lay in his richness of his character.

Destine for mediocrity—how could he have been entrusted

with the life of angelic perfection?

To be locked, together by codes of honor, and so many drops of blood

Nothing but shame could mark such a love—with hands so freshly red.

He pushed at the bars of his binding predicament

A caged bird—he grew more wooden, more aloof, more proud.

And she only grew more lovely.

His strength and pride could not save him from the white of her skin

the black of her hair…

He fell from grace

Into the folds of her violet silk kimono.

How could something so beautiful, so tender be called:

Ugly, sickening, blasphemous?

He could not live without her—yet could not live with his reality—

Their bed not yet cold, and he would find himself sick with the thought

Of her delicate form twisted beneath his own

Love, lust, beauty, and friendship

Sewn together in a tapestry—with incestuous thread.