DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword’s sharp mind had a talent, a knack, for calculating, for corresponding into potential solutions and machinations, for digging deep, solving, processing, striving for areas and routes of probable wiles. But in this moment, he had nothing. Maybe there hadn’t been enough time. Maybe his brain had been hardwired into despair, rather than prospects and likelihoods. Or maybe, deep down, it had already accepted the inevitable (naught), and his heart had yet to catch up. Always the last to know, to go, to understand.
He’d had a whole category of amusements for her in the instances before these shards, and he almost craved he’d said nothing at all – gone right back to his usual mode of keeping everything covered, hidden, under wraps, veiled, shrouded, until necessity drove it onward. But it wouldn’t have been fair to her. And anything he could’ve, would’ve said now was a moot point. All the work he’d done to earn himself some level of normalcy, of not wading through the murk and grime of heartbreak, of anguish, of grief, seemed gone.
And so now they lingered in the fading, disjointed interludes of what had always been a strong, committed bond, fracturing from the inside out, and he didn’t want to look at the writing on the wall. Didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to encompass. Didn’t want to languish in that infernal abyss any longer. Instead of everything else that surfaced over his skin, his eyes focused on hers, before a sigh filtered through; like his entire ribcage forced the mutiny, the sedition, into the air. “We do what we can.” Whether it was fight or flight, diminish or strive, make and manifest something out of the dregs, the dirges, the scraps of what was left.
He’d had a whole category of amusements for her in the instances before these shards, and he almost craved he’d said nothing at all – gone right back to his usual mode of keeping everything covered, hidden, under wraps, veiled, shrouded, until necessity drove it onward. But it wouldn’t have been fair to her. And anything he could’ve, would’ve said now was a moot point. All the work he’d done to earn himself some level of normalcy, of not wading through the murk and grime of heartbreak, of anguish, of grief, seemed gone.
And so now they lingered in the fading, disjointed interludes of what had always been a strong, committed bond, fracturing from the inside out, and he didn’t want to look at the writing on the wall. Didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to encompass. Didn’t want to languish in that infernal abyss any longer. Instead of everything else that surfaced over his skin, his eyes focused on hers, before a sigh filtered through; like his entire ribcage forced the mutiny, the sedition, into the air. “We do what we can.” Whether it was fight or flight, diminish or strive, make and manifest something out of the dregs, the dirges, the scraps of what was left.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
