His wild hair breaks free over yonder
His successors adore him but his eyes stay lonely Sword in hand he paves his way through his troubled heart and tries instead to be a lover
He is a scientist
He is a writer of sorts
His passion lies in his own world where he alone answers all his questions of what lies in his heart.
But he answers them alone.
The bitter frost not consuming his heart, but shaving his mind.
To think is his greatest adventure.
The stars are at his hands while his fingers grip his vials of chemical infusions silently.
He yearns to become a poetic lover.
Alas, He looks for love through jars of stolen hearts
His madness foreboding
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