i be not the king of france but these are my delusions

you may have your pursestrings cut, or your mirrors buried in peat moss and thought garments.
you may delete your past and sundering all; repeat your vanishing foolishness with aplomb.
you may sleep with wolves in dire straits, floating through the forest
like a pack of impending-
on a light-foot… in haste of a prey
without a prayer.

Or so the priests say. And…

i be not the king of france but these are my delusions…
the world is round out of spite.
there’s a caste system in heaven.
pigs fly when you’re not looking.
skin is human bark. and sparrows are avatars
for something that is mocking you.
sweet tea is not evil… And-

Joy Burns.