Distant and infectious can describe his being,
A force unleashed only when he see’s fit,

His façade a stoic stare, his voice long since heard,
His walk blending and his dress subtle,

A past, vibrant and commanding,
but his present stays cold,
subdued,
derelict,
and focused,

He chooses this, however, and lives happily by it,
As others dispute his new state,

"I will control my fate," he thinks, "and I will die for a reason;
Because what is man, but a vessel for his own desire?"

Is he wrong?
His isolation for the betterment of his being?
Never loving a woman, never speaking a word.
Is he so wrong?
For living the way he believes?
Living to fight for those who can’t?
Doing the unthinkable—the ungodly—because the rest of us can’t?