Five trick kings. With a ring on a wing of an eagle prayer flies through the window of the doors of perception. And the mirror of illusion that leads to a Kingdom of Kings. Forty years and 20 spears lead to one King. A King with two rings for the second time around. He circles an eight of five lives. Then drives and arrives alive to a valley on a mountain in the dells of things unknown. But once shown alone will shake the universe to the bone. The tone of the telephone scathed with barbed wire scratches the ears they ease drop. The Czar awaits revulsion. But the compulsion of grit sit upon the throne of the Sought. Measurements are attached to the latch of the coffins. Play for blood, that’s just my game. And so, it begins again. The Sand of the hour, counts, then pronounces the end of the time and beginning of being the circle love. As the five kings duplicate the zero of Nero.