It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
An instinctual push and pull, when the mountains and snow called to him, on stark absolution, on absent demolition, on the secrets and devouring, all-consuming desecration. His head spun and the wind churned against him, and within the evening sprawl he didn’t care – like memories bounding and haunting, telling him to go further into the chill, into the splendor, into the air until he was a part of the backdrop, the surroundings, the summits and its plummeting rock.
The fever raged and he might’ve too, had summer evenings not reminded him of twilight endeavors, of songs spurned into offerings, of galaxies beyond his power, of constellations etched and sketched and times where he wasn’t so forlorn. A choking, grasping, rotting noose, until he turned towards the snow, and sat within its threshold.
Fire; would the goddess of the stars want to be anointed and beheld in flames? Deimos glanced upwards and wondered, body not upright, tilting and swaying, spine barely holding any semblance of his entity, his strength together – Zuriel watching nervously, following because someone needed to watch, to guard, while he lost and spiraled and fell apart at the seams.
The inferno came without any other thought, inherent, from his father and bloodlines and the pulsing, pervading stretch of elements – blistering from his hands and then stretching towards the midnight sky, on the plumes of his breath, on the incantations riddled in his sanction. The Sword conjured, sculpted, and wove pictures in the conflagration – bright, bursting stars, their pointed ends sizzling in cinders and embers, dancing in the skyline, twisting into celestial, cosmic particles – so that they might reach the atmosphere.
The fever raged and he might’ve too, had summer evenings not reminded him of twilight endeavors, of songs spurned into offerings, of galaxies beyond his power, of constellations etched and sketched and times where he wasn’t so forlorn. A choking, grasping, rotting noose, until he turned towards the snow, and sat within its threshold.
Fire; would the goddess of the stars want to be anointed and beheld in flames? Deimos glanced upwards and wondered, body not upright, tilting and swaying, spine barely holding any semblance of his entity, his strength together – Zuriel watching nervously, following because someone needed to watch, to guard, while he lost and spiraled and fell apart at the seams.
The inferno came without any other thought, inherent, from his father and bloodlines and the pulsing, pervading stretch of elements – blistering from his hands and then stretching towards the midnight sky, on the plumes of his breath, on the incantations riddled in his sanction. The Sword conjured, sculpted, and wove pictures in the conflagration – bright, bursting stars, their pointed ends sizzling in cinders and embers, dancing in the skyline, twisting into celestial, cosmic particles – so that they might reach the atmosphere.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
