DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
It was not very often that Deimos sunk into desperation. A quick, analytical, tactical mind borne from scholarly books, intuition, and ability to examine, scrutinize, and evaluate notions in calculating endeavors had served him well through multiple lifetimes. The battlefield had taught him swiftness and a keen eye; judgement through a single glance. But these notions, these moments, left him with nothing to hold onto but her, and even then, it didn’t feel fair. It didn’t feel right. A mess of fiendish proportions, and he couldn’t see a light at the end, couldn’t ascertain the accord of what he could create or contort that would do any damn bit of good. How he could fix this when there wasn’t anything to mend but severed hearts and withering dreams. Nothing to be done.
But wait? But sit there and mire himself into the same agonies he’d endured before and before and before? Again and again?
Something bitter coated his throat and he swallowed it down, peeling away; understanding her forefront, her argument, her position, but still wanting to skim over the top of it, not relent. Not give in. Fight, fight, fight when there wasn’t anything to win – how he’d survived and endured for so god damn long. Dig heels in. Raise his head. Defy and seditiously spread his vehemence into the world, let them know, let them see, let them understand –
He sighed and stilled, raised a palm to dash away at more of the tears, trying to stop their tracks, agonized and brutalized by the way the earth shifted into these plains of anguish, clutched there, in the thresholds of shadows and darkness. And she’d quieted too; maybe numbed, maybe tired of it all, maybe sickened and weary of the way their paths melded now. And all he could do was whisper back into the fold, with choking nuances and gathered breaths. “I will try to come up with something.” Because if he didn’t, it felt like admitting defeat.
But wait? But sit there and mire himself into the same agonies he’d endured before and before and before? Again and again?
Something bitter coated his throat and he swallowed it down, peeling away; understanding her forefront, her argument, her position, but still wanting to skim over the top of it, not relent. Not give in. Fight, fight, fight when there wasn’t anything to win – how he’d survived and endured for so god damn long. Dig heels in. Raise his head. Defy and seditiously spread his vehemence into the world, let them know, let them see, let them understand –
He sighed and stilled, raised a palm to dash away at more of the tears, trying to stop their tracks, agonized and brutalized by the way the earth shifted into these plains of anguish, clutched there, in the thresholds of shadows and darkness. And she’d quieted too; maybe numbed, maybe tired of it all, maybe sickened and weary of the way their paths melded now. And all he could do was whisper back into the fold, with choking nuances and gathered breaths. “I will try to come up with something.” Because if he didn’t, it felt like admitting defeat.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
