DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Warden was there before him, and he narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows, trying to fathom why. Were they in Halo? Had he wandered too far again? But as his gaze traced after ghosts, distinct outlines of those who’d died before him, around him, after him, the thoughts seemed to fall away, mind struggling to catch up with the bizarre multitudes, factions, and patterns pervading webbed dominions. “A safe place? Where is it safe?” From pain and onslaughts? From terror and horror? From his own wretched fate? Had he missed such a world, after all this time?
He moved forward, meandering along cobblestones, down paths that were familiar, presuming she was following along. “Zuriel can get it.” Except Zuriel wasn’t there, the unicorn off at his house, missing this certain moment where he’d escaped her careful watch and struck out in the delirium, in the vertigo. She might’ve been looking for him now, and it was only a matter of time. Then the beast stumbled over his own feet, and chuckled, uttered a deep laugh, while the blood seeped and crawled down into his beard.
“Home? No. I do not want to go home.” He sidestepped, sideways, away from the insinuation, as if it were a prison. Along the eternal emptiness, where it was hollow instead of hallowed; like he’d begun again and was lonely in the genesis – tired, tired, tired of losing. “I am thirsty.”
He moved forward, meandering along cobblestones, down paths that were familiar, presuming she was following along. “Zuriel can get it.” Except Zuriel wasn’t there, the unicorn off at his house, missing this certain moment where he’d escaped her careful watch and struck out in the delirium, in the vertigo. She might’ve been looking for him now, and it was only a matter of time. Then the beast stumbled over his own feet, and chuckled, uttered a deep laugh, while the blood seeped and crawled down into his beard.
“Home? No. I do not want to go home.” He sidestepped, sideways, away from the insinuation, as if it were a prison. Along the eternal emptiness, where it was hollow instead of hallowed; like he’d begun again and was lonely in the genesis – tired, tired, tired of losing. “I am thirsty.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
