A Key to the Sun

by John Pursch

Incremental thoughts creep through soot and dried conclusions, occluding the sky, flooding us with state machine strata. Hillsides erupt in basal confluence, enveloping the equally forced streams, descending in millennial showers of granular gavels and semi-closed systems. Heat careens through referential foam, humming clarity’s grainy tune, lulling mentality into loose slumber. Ominous artifacts loom beneath miles of dockyard sand, pitting bygone quadratures against the lonely daze of stereotypical orphans. Blackened logic bubbles up, quiescing in searched lucidity, replicating steeples in stained glass weekends, leaving blank serenity in pedestals of meat. Setting the dark river's drifting rain ablaze, streaming headlights dream of social safety, hem the tree line, and rouse the rippling rabble’s long-forgotten mandate for eternity. Tremulous and tuned to the song of a wayward hunchback, limbering up for quaint aliquots and rosy phantoms of beveled niches, pawns deflect dire equality, splicing torn opulence and mirrored delicacies, plated in stares of cold, blonde anguish. Crowded enzymes limp at light speed through ancestral fields of manacled birthrights and documents gone waxy, breaching all but the natal high torpor mark, gambling with clownfish for a key to the sun.