Michael King Poems

He prays this love for Vesper not to fold,
that she and he will stay until the morn,
while echoes crack, and years grow wicked old,
and they two weave a century unborn.
...

There's nothing here that fortune cannot tell;
Channels running red with blood of gold,
pleasure mounting high, the ringing smell.
...

The bogs of Hell are harshly flowing by;
Small silver spoons are forceful, burned by men,
so fight on through. Your passion's come to die
...