DEIMOS
Maybe he was a shadow; barely alive, figments and blackened, enigmatic, breathing maelstroms of nothingness. He could’ve maneuvered from room to room, naught in the wake of his mind, numbed and empty, concaved and vacant, a breath barely passing from lungs to throat to mouth; wakes of eternities in the chisel of bones and enamel. How many times he’d lost. How many times he’d failed. How many times he’d scraped against the ground, face-down, trying to ensure he wasn’t among the dead again. Should they have perished then too, amongst the sweeping gallows of icy halls and foundations? Would that have made everything better?
Because he didn’t know how to fix this. He’d never healed from all the back-breaking maelstroms, all the chaotic imbalances, over the feral, splintered, snapped tides. He just smothered them down, down, down until one day he’d be completely, utterly consumed, suffocating in his perils, in his abyss, in the devastations and disasters that should’ve been triumphs. All he’d ever done was move forward and pretend to be fine, bear the weight, the bruises, the seams, the stones, quietly drowning, never a plea uttered.
Even as she curled in tighter, he coiled, surrounded, pervaded, provided, sought to do something other than be engulfed in his own miseries and melancholies. The Sword tried to give and grant all the love, all the compassion, all the strength he had in his arms, in his hold, in his presence, tarnished soul brandished for her, even as she so clearly didn’t want it. “I should have grabbed them too,” a rumble, a whisper, something quiet and stark and hushed. He put the blame on himself – let it clatter and claw, let it rampage and fester, decay and root itself into the warped thresholds of his damaged, depleted figure. Mind on the mission, primordial instincts snapping over the perils – the way he plunged during battle, nothing left to liberate when they’d perished, when they’d all been doomed to repeat the nuance, the quest, the sojourn again had he not snagged at Coffee.
Because he didn’t know how to fix this. He’d never healed from all the back-breaking maelstroms, all the chaotic imbalances, over the feral, splintered, snapped tides. He just smothered them down, down, down until one day he’d be completely, utterly consumed, suffocating in his perils, in his abyss, in the devastations and disasters that should’ve been triumphs. All he’d ever done was move forward and pretend to be fine, bear the weight, the bruises, the seams, the stones, quietly drowning, never a plea uttered.
Even as she curled in tighter, he coiled, surrounded, pervaded, provided, sought to do something other than be engulfed in his own miseries and melancholies. The Sword tried to give and grant all the love, all the compassion, all the strength he had in his arms, in his hold, in his presence, tarnished soul brandished for her, even as she so clearly didn’t want it. “I should have grabbed them too,” a rumble, a whisper, something quiet and stark and hushed. He put the blame on himself – let it clatter and claw, let it rampage and fester, decay and root itself into the warped thresholds of his damaged, depleted figure. Mind on the mission, primordial instincts snapping over the perils – the way he plunged during battle, nothing left to liberate when they’d perished, when they’d all been doomed to repeat the nuance, the quest, the sojourn again had he not snagged at Coffee.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
