the kings-felt year

transulcent meanderings light the fire in a thousand red carriages. Underneath them, pebbles melt into pods of fish and gallop through streams of artificial strands of dreams left untold. Woe-begotten, incensenced, and frail. Incandescent nightmares fill up an already boiling trashcan full of mixed chords and fleeting metaphors. But it's the seventh child that always bites the nail. And it's the steeping honey pan that never gets to pray. One knee folded, one eye closed. One step forward, one glance upward. A thousand strands of DNA couldn't fix this effervescent longing. Knock, knock, twitch, fall. On time and off the wall. Hitting puberty before my mother can make amends with the giant pinecone smell that envelops the sporadic jungle of my sprawled out face. Just play the kings-felt year. And hope for macabre hauntings to melt into spring. It's truly, but not rationally, jinxed, if it were to never be told it weren't unrealized. Tick, tock, mechanical garages toiling with each other in fistfights of retention. "Remember, remember," the free-grazing, but widespread shadows say. It's not the table on which the game is played that determines it's effect; it's whether or not there is any iota of doubt that the effect is determined by the game or table.