Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place The statements pierced, and he knew, he knew; the gatekeeper to his own decrepit heart, closing off walls and locking doors, casting everything aside when the pain became torturous, when the lacerations wove deeply into the vessels and chambers, when he choked and defied. “It hurts when they go. It never leaves. I cannot hasten the anguish away.” And so they stacked, and stacked, and stacked, until he was within his own prison, and their names against his sorrows, collecting in the ash, dust, and fibers. So he could stare and remember, so he could grieve and bear it for lifetimes. But she was there, there, and there, and he knew her title was on one of those damned piles, amongst and amidst so many others. Comfort for now, but not reality. Not tangible. Not whole. When he awakened, there would still be a hole. There would still be a force extinguished, vacant, absent from his life. A tap at his nose brought him out, and he looked down upon her in his arms, barely breathing, barely collected, tossed and shorn. “Sometimes I think I collect them.” A tired grin from the side of his lips; hoarder of furtive vows. |
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary
