He’s dead.

Just like my daily dose of evening bread.

A bubble of silence has been broken.

No longer shall the doors of expression cease to be open.

I killed him with two rounds.

One for his many years of oppression, and another for his many doubts.

I, who is not dead, is free now.

Free to roam the entire earth, free to experience its many pleasures and sounds.

Nevertheless, my freedom has become constrained, but how?

He who I killed with two rounds has come back undead.

Jealous of my presence, and screaming a banshee’s sound.

I cover my ears, no longer wanting to listen.

No longer can I take the darkness and pressure that he’s in.

Yet, upon a glance, I witness a tear shed.

Realizing now that he is not truly undead.

He has a heart, but acts of expression he does not choose.

To sit, think, and glance upon the stars is his muse.

As such, I will not kill him.

No, no, I shall not kill him.

Instead, I shall begin to embrace his crying eyes.

Knowing, truly, that I am him and he is I.