Ding! Dong! Swish.
Tinkle. Ring.
Jingle. Ping. Chime!

As if they could make a sound… There isn’t a day I pass by them with silence. For every footstep there is a chime, and for every breeze there is a jingle.

I hear them all over. Is that so wrong? I hear them through the depth of the night and beneath the solace of the sun.

They come in all shades of all colors. With each fuschia or each periwinkle, comes a ding or a dong.

Every tinkle and each swish have a shadow that trails fortune. But if you happen to hear a ping, I’d suggest writing up your will.

They can see the future and can twist it to satisfaction. A mere flower with control can be dangerous, you see.

They feel what you feel, those wishing bells. Their luck is deceiving, for the wish is not yours. They want what you have, but the wish isn’t theirs. The wish is on hold for the king of all kings, yet to be born.