Change everything you are and everything you were
Your number has been called
The Reaper, the Sword, watched, waiting, for the opportune moment to strike. He wasn’t going to be a weakened thread in an unraveling, unfurling mess; not a shamble, not a pathetic soul, not one to meekly cower and give way. He simply needed the murmurs to grow closer, to linger a little further in his reach, biding time, a patient prey, a methodical predator. Just a matter of time indeed; immersed in his silence, conforming to boulder, to stone, to guardian of a rose (still incapable of fathoming or comprehending why, as if there were no answers to be had or heralded, the choking abyss remiss in its deliberations, in their constant, unwinding inquiries). A portrait of quiet, unholy irreverence, he peered between crags and witnessed, the hulking form lurking along woodline and edges, within snow, not a shiver, not a shudder uttered or amassed from his figure – anointed and consecrated, reigning supreme once in a land of eternal winter. This was nothing – his form rooted, his posture suited for upheaval the instant it was necessary.
His hands sifted back into the blooming, dulcet petals, down to the stalk, the stem, avoiding the puncture of thorns, ensuring the flora was suitably planted, rooted into the ground, in case his departure was an imminent thing, in case his stoic wherewithal had to become entrenched in brutality; maiming and demolition for a cause, for a notion.
His hands sifted back into the blooming, dulcet petals, down to the stalk, the stem, avoiding the puncture of thorns, ensuring the flora was suitably planted, rooted into the ground, in case his departure was an imminent thing, in case his stoic wherewithal had to become entrenched in brutality; maiming and demolition for a cause, for a notion.
DEIMOS
