DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Laughter instead of anguish, amusements instead of despair – moments he could collect and store, remember and recall, when everything seemed too much to bear. And he’d done the latter for so long, that sometimes the chuckles, the warmth, died and withered, decayed and diminished, over the landslides of grief, forgetting where they were meant to be. Forgoing how to land properly in the world, tucked underneath ribs and around nefarious hearts. It was as if he could pluck them away now, for a second, for an instant, all those stumbling nuances and fallen dreams and dissolved edges; give them over to rounds of something else not riddled, not rankled, into pits of grief. Maybe that was why the chuckles resounded so – glad to be free, to be untethered, to be unleashed.
He snorted at the simpering, an obvious grimace in his wake the batting of her eyelashes, a wrinkle to his nose settling in again. The beast had never fallen for her wiles, for her tricks, but readily employed her schemes - appreciating the ability of stealth, furtiveness, and deception that he couldn’t muster. He leaned back against the rim of the bath, an arch to a brow, before his eyes roamed elsewhere, upward, as if he could see through the ceiling, and all the way out towards the horizon – that he often wished were painted in streaks of aurora. “That is true.”
But there were more volleys to be had, more rounds of stupidity and mischief; the ridiculous nature and accord of his juvenile tendencies alive and well in the swarm of muck. At her launch, he did his best to surge through the edge of the mire, powerful legs kicking him off the bench, and rounding along the fringes and boundaries with a zeal of boyish laughter again. She managed to get some portion of his hair, the loose tendrils that might’ve fallen in his haste, and some righteous indignation spiraled back up in the form of a mud wall between them – rising and rising and rising in a glorious fortification behind him.
He snorted at the simpering, an obvious grimace in his wake the batting of her eyelashes, a wrinkle to his nose settling in again. The beast had never fallen for her wiles, for her tricks, but readily employed her schemes - appreciating the ability of stealth, furtiveness, and deception that he couldn’t muster. He leaned back against the rim of the bath, an arch to a brow, before his eyes roamed elsewhere, upward, as if he could see through the ceiling, and all the way out towards the horizon – that he often wished were painted in streaks of aurora. “That is true.”
But there were more volleys to be had, more rounds of stupidity and mischief; the ridiculous nature and accord of his juvenile tendencies alive and well in the swarm of muck. At her launch, he did his best to surge through the edge of the mire, powerful legs kicking him off the bench, and rounding along the fringes and boundaries with a zeal of boyish laughter again. She managed to get some portion of his hair, the loose tendrils that might’ve fallen in his haste, and some righteous indignation spiraled back up in the form of a mud wall between them – rising and rising and rising in a glorious fortification behind him.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
