not heroes any longer - we are tragedies of firelight and flesh
unholy sacraments of blood and broken bodies
A cycle of misgivings and tribulations, circling back upon one another in a twisting, tormenting sway. Content moments were fleeting and far-between now, stretched paper-thin, and the temptation to return to the Reaper – to unravel back into shadow, to seek out chords of nothingness, a void, an insurrection, a great hollowed, carved out knife, was great. But he followed just the same, in too deep, intending to complete the botched, disheveled, torn apart mission. To rebuild a shrine rankled and distorted, when all of them were just the same.
He had no words. He had nothing but the magnitude of his presence, standing alongside the Shield, uncertain of how far their disasters reached. His eyes flicked to her healed legs, grateful they’d been returned, but naught was expressed. Just a vast emptiness clutched and clawed, as his gaze settled on Coffee, on the weight of their failures, on the ways in which he wished they could go back. But they never could – the damage already done.
He had no words. He had nothing but the magnitude of his presence, standing alongside the Shield, uncertain of how far their disasters reached. His eyes flicked to her healed legs, grateful they’d been returned, but naught was expressed. Just a vast emptiness clutched and clawed, as his gaze settled on Coffee, on the weight of their failures, on the ways in which he wished they could go back. But they never could – the damage already done.
what use have we for feeble hymns of wasted faith;
for sordid songs of glory?
DEIMOS
