DEIMOS
Flying; like everything was normal, like some parts were rendered whole again, piecing together mountain backdrops and settling into some commonality – and he was afraid to feel anything, apprehensive at the calm, uncertain when it would flicker off and fade again. He was in no mood for singing, but came and went anyway, wings unfurling, might curling and coiling, the aspects of his ruminations refusing to fade, gliding amongst the eaves of twilight and opuses. The beast was no master orator (never), and there’d been no oeuvre brindled from his mind or mouth. Last year’s songs had been corresponded in mischief, in some delights long since tarnished, vanquished and gone, the rapid changes and alterations a notion caving upon him. He could feel Kiada’s excitement, incapable of matching it, sullen and quiet, listening, listening, listening, until his eyes adjusted to both, and it seemed to be his turn.Adrift, a turn into the sky, midnight fissures on the plunge of plumage; like just yesterday when they’d been here, longing for sagacity and guidance. Wisdom from the stars, following the a set of patterns of prose his mother might have tried to instill in him, deep rumbling tones accompanying their connections and chords, shaping and guiding forward, breathing amongst the chilling voids. Blessings in the snow.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
