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Where’s My Crown?

By: Gianna Episcopo

While hunched over the chessboard

of the world, we must sustain the

fickle fluctuations of this sort of

clarity that’s impassioned by the

madman’s theory. It is all a game. 

Mid-century players flail around

with tactical and overarching

framework of an Indian scholar’s 

notes. Artist-in-residence are quite

prominent in songs of them with

concertinas.

The pons at the prisons may

acquaint with some of those

sculpted knights that’re

juxtaposes and renditions of

bright rays of imprisoned hope.

They’re incarcerated by the eyes

felt in their craftsmanship and

unruly defenses.

We’ve been rankled by the

white tigers and the so-called

stargazing crown. The more

things remain the same, the

more same things remain,

don’t they?

The world made of plastic and

wood hits with hard depredation

and is narcotizing with a spur

of cloud space. Royalty is

skyrocketing with the shine of

electric-powered lights and the

whole physical environment

feels depressingly finished.