michael king

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

austin.

let me tell you this,
there’s a reason you
are always telling stories,
laughter rising and
scattering across the
room like lamplight

these pictures you
paint, hands in the
air as you brush
hope across the
concrete walls, are
defiant color over
the long-drawn gray

they add up, in
the end, all the
story after story
after story, into
the big one, the
everything together,
the one we all need,
miraculous spark.

poetry

roses in hand.

i show up to my wars
with roses, wide-eyed
sincerity the only
weapon i can seem
to carry, just

mind your hands,
i will pare away
no thorns
for reckless fingertips

poetry