Little King

A bronze voice flicks at godly harps

with tattered fingerprints. His

identity is just as intact. Are you

weasel or basilisk? Both. Smells

of paralysis and norepinephrine.

 

That’s just a musk meant to

deceive the coup. Throws off

the bloodhounds and assailants.

 

It’s safe-keeping.

Self-preservation.

Evolution. Delay.

Royalty. I’m lying.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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