DEIMOS
The songs, the chorus, didn’t clamber terribly hard, didn’t jar or ricochet so severely, so discordantly as he might have predicted, finally able to lapse into some realm of bemusement. On wings, on plumes of air, they gathered their strings of bonded musical chords, nearing its end, its finale – and when the baker asked for their hopes for the future, he didn’t quite know what to say. He hadn’t built himself those foundations – afraid they’d be shaking walls with no fortifications, no might, no weight to them, when everything was always left to chance, fair or foul fortune, no matter their might, no matter their tenacity. There were things he yearned and desired, but for fear they’d never come to fruition, given voice, given tangibility, they’d remained locked and clustered in his soul, in his mind, in silence. His eyes flickered briefly to the owl, and then across the icy expanse, for connections and convictions forged, for things to not always go blindly awry, for moments where they could all breathe. Maybe this was one of them, and he simply hadn’t seen it, hadn’t realized it, until now. His mind coiled and curled a faction, a vague refrain, but meant to convey and encompass everything. On the horizon, we crave better days, instances not brandished and brindled in so much heartache and pain, continuing on and on and on, a little serenity, a little repose, before the next tempest. And bonds that cease to fray.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
