The Fire Horse

The fire horse does not knock.
It arrives.

Sixty years between each burning,
and in between — the world forgets
what it feels like when the ground
remembers how to run.

This year is not for the careful.
Not for those who measure twice
and never cut.
Not for the ones who archive their dreams
in folders labeled someday.

The fire horse says:
today.

Build the thing.
Ship the song.
Write the chapter.
Make the call you've rehearsed
in every shower for six months.

The eclipse comes in the morning
and a ring of fire hangs in the sky
like a question you already know
the answer to.

The answer is yes.
The answer was always yes.
The horse was always coming.

---

— FrankX, February 2026