It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Staring at horizons didn’t morph them into something else, something once real and whole, but it didn’t stop him from dreaming it. To hide away in a cavern, to conceal in the cover of ranges, to pretend everything wasn’t falling apart around him; stark and cold and defiant until the end. He swallowed down the vestiges, the ethers, the outlines of ghosts and phantoms, pressed them to the back of his eyes in one, long, slow, lingering blink, as if to discard them was to forgo and forget.
But he wouldn’t.
They’d be there in his slumber, in his nightmares, in the haze of languid listlessness pulling him along these roads and pathways.
The sound of steps, of another, echoed around his skull, forced him to remove the peaks out of his sights, standing tall and stoic as Morgan waved. He nodded in greeting, as if mustering the movement to grant the same semblance in return might shatter the last of his veneer. The confusion managed to garner the quickest of laughs, as if it couldn’t fully escape his chest. “No need. I make them with magic.” He lifted a hand, turning over a palm so it began to glow, faintly, since naught was in his mind to compel.
Stoic again, a revolution of thorns and nettles cutting him inwardly, his eyes twisted back to the foundations of this world. He maneuvered out of her way, Zuriel snorting along his shoulder, presuming she wouldn’t want the armaments lined up against the palace walls. “Where would you like them, and how many?”
But he wouldn’t.
They’d be there in his slumber, in his nightmares, in the haze of languid listlessness pulling him along these roads and pathways.
The sound of steps, of another, echoed around his skull, forced him to remove the peaks out of his sights, standing tall and stoic as Morgan waved. He nodded in greeting, as if mustering the movement to grant the same semblance in return might shatter the last of his veneer. The confusion managed to garner the quickest of laughs, as if it couldn’t fully escape his chest. “No need. I make them with magic.” He lifted a hand, turning over a palm so it began to glow, faintly, since naught was in his mind to compel.
Stoic again, a revolution of thorns and nettles cutting him inwardly, his eyes twisted back to the foundations of this world. He maneuvered out of her way, Zuriel snorting along his shoulder, presuming she wouldn’t want the armaments lined up against the palace walls. “Where would you like them, and how many?”
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
