Roman

At one time, the clocks knew they would melt

There was a spark and it was the prelude. 
It was an attitude, unsustainable,
a once upon at one time, an explanation 

that carries none of its bags. I hear a goddish
voice in the back of my head. Narrator,
can you hear me?

Will this story become sufficiently
deified? The defiance ringing the spark's
afterglow threatens to douse. The plot
rhymes with mouse. Also house.

I can almost recall what a ruffed 
grouse looks like, but only at the flash
of ground bird flush.