They know not, who he is,

his eyes a green, mine a shade dark.yet, when he runs, I hide the same.
They say he owns them, black locks.
yet, when they whisper
I brush mine aside.
In their odes, his knife becomes mine.
my hands, tainted a shade like his.
In their lores, I hold those hilts
yet, I know not its shade.
Perhaps a silver or a tarnished gold.
when he is locked, I see those bars.
yet his high is different, mine is void.
Now,
he screams, I weep the mare.
Knowing not his eyes a green stare.