DEIMOS
Too many ends and not enough beginnings; the infinite lines of loss grating and bristling, hovering over and under his breath while he proceeded away from the fire, back into the moldings of the table, the kitchen, surroundings meant to be comfortable even when the subject matter was not. Everything felt heavy and cumbersome, but he leaned against the wall, taking shape and substance from its fortification, while he felt tired and listless.
Her history and images came to life in his mind thereafter too – shared semblances of beings they’d once been, molded and crafted, shaped and whittled. He bore witness to the woman who’d bene her lifeline, a bridge to stars and galaxies, to a whirlwind of myths, legends, truths, and stories, and a mother who insisted on knowledge, on information, on sagacity, and wisdom to tangible wiles too. The Sword almost snorted; raised within similar parallels when it came to matriarchs; likely certain their children would’ve been foolish and naïve without their support, without their stern brows and guidance.
But her words didn’t invite humor, laughter, or anything other than his quietude: another lost during LongNight, it’s merciless stretch of monstrous intonations. Just gone; no demons, no infidels, no claws, taken along the intertwining expanse of midnight and doom.
Nothing they could’ve ever done, and it haunted them both. Just how many more lives would press across their shoulders? Or when would it no longer be their responsibility? Happenstance and naught more? Did the guilt ever wash away?
His gaze lingered on the floor, then rose to her; and he felt empty, useless, another vessel with only intakes of air and an exhausted, fatigued mind. His movements followed, walking, wandering, to bridge the gap, arms unfolding, offering support and comfort when he wasn’t certain what else he had to give. And maybe he needed it too, tired of reliving the melancholy, the anguish, the ghosts in his head.
Her history and images came to life in his mind thereafter too – shared semblances of beings they’d once been, molded and crafted, shaped and whittled. He bore witness to the woman who’d bene her lifeline, a bridge to stars and galaxies, to a whirlwind of myths, legends, truths, and stories, and a mother who insisted on knowledge, on information, on sagacity, and wisdom to tangible wiles too. The Sword almost snorted; raised within similar parallels when it came to matriarchs; likely certain their children would’ve been foolish and naïve without their support, without their stern brows and guidance.
But her words didn’t invite humor, laughter, or anything other than his quietude: another lost during LongNight, it’s merciless stretch of monstrous intonations. Just gone; no demons, no infidels, no claws, taken along the intertwining expanse of midnight and doom.
Nothing they could’ve ever done, and it haunted them both. Just how many more lives would press across their shoulders? Or when would it no longer be their responsibility? Happenstance and naught more? Did the guilt ever wash away?
His gaze lingered on the floor, then rose to her; and he felt empty, useless, another vessel with only intakes of air and an exhausted, fatigued mind. His movements followed, walking, wandering, to bridge the gap, arms unfolding, offering support and comfort when he wasn’t certain what else he had to give. And maybe he needed it too, tired of reliving the melancholy, the anguish, the ghosts in his head.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
