DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Twilight and sea glass; casts of moonlight spread along sands, primordial vows he might’ve once uttered or made on bounds of gangly limbs and laughter. It was nothing now but reminders, a heavy, aching weight in the center of his chest, colliding along ribs and lungs, eyes flickering over lights, over will-o-wisps, over heralds in rags and masks. He watched orbs race along shoal and dunes, and others meander their way into the sanction – half-tempted to spirit along as a bird, as a tiger, as a bear, something else other than his human form, protected from the wake of detachment. The makeshift cathedral was a distraction, and then everyone else pulled into its wake, bag on his shoulder, not advancing like some, keeping himself tucked away, watching, waiting, deliberating.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
