michael king

stack of stained pages, redacted love letters, spilling ink, pressing it into tomorrow


sketch myself down, roots
dug deep into Indiana
soil, brothers and sisters
fighting invisible
bad guys in the backyard,
whisking through cornfields
as fast as our legs would
carry us

etched into my sides are
scars and stories, so
careful with my steps
and reckless in my
loving, names carved
down to the muscle,
ancient aches in the

and the branches,
deciduous, find them
clinging to yesterday’s
hopes, let them
go, fall free, farewell dances,
empty limbs reaching
in spite of their shivering


sunday post: video games.

sunday post orange

The sun stretches itself up over the horizon, pouring its earliest rays across the Kokiri Forest. The Deku Tree, revered guardian of these woods and the children who inhabit them, implores Navi the fairy to seek out Link, the boy without a fairy, and to bring him with haste. Footsteps away, in the hollow of a tree, the boy sleeps alone, his past a mystery, his destiny about to unfold before him.

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