Unlike them, don't walk away from my fear
I've busted bones, broken stones
Promises and assurances, oaths and vows, said long before and stretched into the evening sky now – entangled quandaries rankled in tasks and quests. He moved and maneuvered in rapacious, arching strides, as if weightless, as if galvanized, bag tucked over his shoulder, Amalia carried in the breadth of his arms, because he always would. They were flanked and contorted in the dusky haze, in the ravenous Stygian abyss, the summer air filtering and flickering, choosing a moonlit path to water’s edges. The Oasis rippled and undulated, the pale press of lunar rays billowing its fabrications and pretenses over the surface, a veneer, a mirror, a reflection. The Sword bore everything all at once, neither deluded nor fatigued now, muscles bunched and coiled, contorted and fervent, ready and eager for some conclusion, some interval to be laced without pain or torment.
Crossing over to the embankment, the carved perimeters, he ceased and desisted, lowering the Shield down to the press of verdant blades, the stalks of grass not hampered by humidity or infernos. She could decide how she yearned to twist or turn, how she intended to proceed, while he placed his satchel on the ground, rummaging through the pack for the specialized jar: crystal, concocted and created from Safrin’s instructions. Halfway bound by teasing and taunting, and the other misgivings, truths needing to be uttered and shared, the man corresponded into bridges of silence, amidst the rumbles of unhampered bonds. Adam told me you were afraid I would not marry you after all of this. It was on an air of nonchalance, but the hurt, some amount of apprehension, coiled its way around – he’d promised the other man he would speak with her, but the subject matter might have mended back into something no longer resembling repose. It’d hurt, it’d cut, it’d bent scars on inward lacerations. Do you doubt my vows?
Amongst the quiet, giving her time, he lifted the hem of his shirt, up and over his head, discarding it, pants following soon after, an arch to his brow; some hint, some formation, of a challenge, grasping the jar in his hands.
Crossing over to the embankment, the carved perimeters, he ceased and desisted, lowering the Shield down to the press of verdant blades, the stalks of grass not hampered by humidity or infernos. She could decide how she yearned to twist or turn, how she intended to proceed, while he placed his satchel on the ground, rummaging through the pack for the specialized jar: crystal, concocted and created from Safrin’s instructions. Halfway bound by teasing and taunting, and the other misgivings, truths needing to be uttered and shared, the man corresponded into bridges of silence, amidst the rumbles of unhampered bonds. Adam told me you were afraid I would not marry you after all of this. It was on an air of nonchalance, but the hurt, some amount of apprehension, coiled its way around – he’d promised the other man he would speak with her, but the subject matter might have mended back into something no longer resembling repose. It’d hurt, it’d cut, it’d bent scars on inward lacerations. Do you doubt my vows?
Amongst the quiet, giving her time, he lifted the hem of his shirt, up and over his head, discarding it, pants following soon after, an arch to his brow; some hint, some formation, of a challenge, grasping the jar in his hands.
looked the devil in the eye
I hope he's going to break these chains
DEIMOS
