DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The semblance, the sense, that both of them were near a breaking point coiled back into him. He could barely maintain any posture of composure now, fighting along the clench of his jaw, the multitudes of everything else grasping and clawing at his cranium. The beast hated that this was suddenly in between them – a gaping chasm he’d seen, he’d noticed beforehand, but ignored for the sake of her revival, her renewal, her chance at life. And he’d been so entirely careful, that now it flared right in his face – no fire, save for the embers beginning to cool and pool into ashes in his chest.
And his eyes searched hers again, suddenly, infinitely tired and exhausted, ready to beg and plead for something neither of them could have. So he’d be quiet again, take the harsh accords right back into the fold of his heart and mind and soul, and wonder where they’d been so skewed and devastated. “Do you want me to leave?” A whisper, a solemn gesture, that he’d give her the time and space she needed, even if that broke him too. Because for the moment he had naught else to offer.
And his eyes searched hers again, suddenly, infinitely tired and exhausted, ready to beg and plead for something neither of them could have. So he’d be quiet again, take the harsh accords right back into the fold of his heart and mind and soul, and wonder where they’d been so skewed and devastated. “Do you want me to leave?” A whisper, a solemn gesture, that he’d give her the time and space she needed, even if that broke him too. Because for the moment he had naught else to offer.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
