Letters of your Life

You were born;
the house burned down.

And in between,
the letters of your life,
strewn like birds
along a length of wire
against a pure azure sky,
noted disclosure both
of your birth and
the death of the house
within.

All those letters
clotted loosely into
a string of empty
promises; the paper
that held them gently,
honored only
in that it was
piled neatly,
became the ignition
that killed the house.

You died;
gray monument arose.

Michael writes because nature wills him to it. He recently left a dystopian suburb of Seattle and retreated to the kneehills of the Olympic mountains, cut the cable, bought whiskey. Now he finds inspiration from deep woods, less so from demons. Though they are there.

To read more of Michael, click here.