fair warning

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Time was of the essence; movements and motions always spread like wildfire here, barely time to breathe, let alone plot or manipulate, before something struck or fell apart. It was exhausting, it was fatiguing, to always be on the run or prepared to fight, biting and gnashing, ripping and tearing; but it was normalcy once – inhaling fire, exhaling sedition. He would just have to embody it all over again, the Reaper, the menace, the mayhem, the living weapon, the deadly machine, coaxed to life from stone and enamel, carved out of the mountainside, brought into fruition because he was a necessity in the gardens of evil. There’d once been days where he did naught but destroy – and he would’ve done it here, given direction, given assurance, given the opportunity or chance. But they kept falling apart. The retorts and jokes came back and forth, humor hardly at their foundation, too blackened, too irate, too incensed, but he laughed at them anyway, half-hearted movement of his chest, a chuckle too sardonic. “We will not have you caged,” Deimos resisted another instance, too lost in the paradigms and paradoxes, the warrens and labyrinths, they always seemed to find themselves within: spreading out instead of clustering together, taking too many different directions and turns, all lost by the end. He didn’t expect pleading from the bard though, eyes following, regarding, taking in the anger amidst the doldrums. “Yes. I will,” he responded with no hesitation – he understood, could fathom the meanings, a mutual exchange between the two of them. It was a spoken agreement this time – but could likely be insinuated long after. If I’m gone, take care of them, a statement unsaid; the interpretation laden. Then he leaned in closer, conspiracy brooding and brewing through his chest, a Machiavellian pursuit caught in his mind; more calculations, more preambles, more possibilities; better to have many than none at all. “I have another plan,” and he whispered it, low, steady, and deep, into the void, where the field and the leaves and the timber would not be able to speak it repeat it. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate