DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
A moment’s reprieve from entangling, foreboding contortions, no highlights of the damned beckoning and crawling across surfaces. No dwindling in jurisdictions of crossfires, of pending circumstances, of dangerous, treacherous persecutions. No unfolding, unfurling, uncurling of rapacious edges and gleaming claws, talons and daggers. Today was to bask in what they had – within those thresholds of fortunate moments, gathered and collected, melded and molded – reflections of the present, rather than the vicious past or the grim future.
He’d never been one to glance into the now; scarred, scalded, and wounded from lives and yesteryears intertwined, maneuvering onward hadn’t been a game he’d relished in playing. He conspired and schemed from interlocked histories, from the pasts spiraling against frameworks and fortifications and then the imminent lines falling into place.
Neither the Reaper nor the Sword would’ve ever predicted the Shield.
So for once he sought to cherish the outcome instead of question it, sought to behold instead of undermine, sought to devote instead of rebel. No insurrection carved into his outlook as they wandered along shoals and shorelines, as they meandered with no clear direction (other than pretending to inspect Samuel’s Torchline armaments), pressing into sand. The world was at their discretion, and he intended to make the most of it.
He turned into her orbit, habitual and routine, puncturing gaze seeking hers, inquiring mind stoking, kindling. “What next?”
He’d never been one to glance into the now; scarred, scalded, and wounded from lives and yesteryears intertwined, maneuvering onward hadn’t been a game he’d relished in playing. He conspired and schemed from interlocked histories, from the pasts spiraling against frameworks and fortifications and then the imminent lines falling into place.
Neither the Reaper nor the Sword would’ve ever predicted the Shield.
So for once he sought to cherish the outcome instead of question it, sought to behold instead of undermine, sought to devote instead of rebel. No insurrection carved into his outlook as they wandered along shoals and shorelines, as they meandered with no clear direction (other than pretending to inspect Samuel’s Torchline armaments), pressing into sand. The world was at their discretion, and he intended to make the most of it.
He turned into her orbit, habitual and routine, puncturing gaze seeking hers, inquiring mind stoking, kindling. “What next?”
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
