Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
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Lies Are Our Demise
Stars stare with
sorrowed eyes through a small window as night embraces with its dark silk skin.
A man sits alone behind cool brick and a window that sits too high. His hands,
his feet bounded by heavy chains but he will not defy. His eyes buried by black
rings, like that of a raven’s eyes. His face torn by the weather's harsh kiss
and the burdens of himself as he brews to the unwise. His body thin to bone,
weak from his suffering, he was once king. But now lay a false man, cut from
his throne, by the ill speaking of a lie. Too long, he thought it best to bury
to the sands of time. To let it be swaddled by truth as if to mummify. But
seekers of the past will always find.
He knows no place
hide as the moon beams high, sitting in the sky with a prying eye. As if
waiting for the confession of a crime. Its blue flesh shines brightly given
view to the man’s paradigm. But the man sees no joy in the light of the moon or
the eyes of the stars. He only feels the pounding of his heart, as it pumps him
with life behind these bars.
His hands shake with
grief as he looks to the sky, viewing what only he can see as he starts to cry.
Between what separates him from the world he fills heavy with guilt but his
tongue remains mute. His flesh sweats to the heat of summers night and still he
will not be absolute. But no warmth covers his soul, only torment for what’s
inside. And what’s inside, would leave all men petrified. But his lips sealed
he will not speak. The guards arrive with mallet in hand, each step a squeak.
Grasping with tense fingers, humming a sorrowed tune, it begins to consume. The
man hears the stepping of guards, each wallowing like the sound of fingernails
to chalkboard. The guards arrive with hands still clenched and the humming of a
The tune grows loud
as the guards turn key. The man cowards to the wall, pressing with boned flesh
covering his face with feeble hands as the guards announce themselves with the
screams of a banshee. The brick does nothing to comfort the man as he sits
hunched like coward. His eyes closed as he listens to the screeching of
the swinging cell door. Punishment swells his mind, his soul littered. Pale to
the ailments of the mans gnarled truth. Tears seep as the guard’s
approach tickling the ground like a cockroach. The sound of whimpering ceases
the guards, but only for a moment. Their faces brim with ugly
smiles. Maybe there will be voice to speak payment. They surround the frail man;
his stench burns the air. The guards hum their tune foully while striking
mallets against brick. Striking over and over till the sounds became like music.
The whimpering of the man grows louder, he man becomes hysterical, but will not
move from his wall. Do these guards not abide by protocol? The man screams with
shame yet his lips remain sealed, his tongue still mute.
The guards continue
their mockery of torment, looking to prosecute. A heavy pain weighs his gut
like the chains upon his flesh as the guards smile madly with maniacal laughter
and noise. The man shivers with fright but he will not speak. The guards stop,
the cell grows silent, all that is about, is the anxious tapping of the man’s
feet. The man hears nothing, he opens his eyes with caution. Lowers his hands
and carefully peers between the darkness of the night. And in the darkness,
stands the guards, silent, still. Looking down upon the man with conviction.
Their eyes as black as the night and their flesh as rotten as death. One begins
to hum, the man spazzes with fear covers his face. But the guards still do not
move, they remain in place. Again, the man lowers his hands, his face fearful
like a child. His eyes blister with sadness and guilt, his soul exiled. But
still he will not speak, still his lips are sealed, still his tongue is mute.
The guards begin to grow, expanding like balloons, their faces press closer and
closer. The man feels his silence grow root.
The air begins to
grow thin, sweat drips from his body like the ringing of a towel, no time to
refute. His mind spins with affliction as his heart speaks of persecution. The
guards begin to speak loudly as the humming of there the tune echoes in the
chamber with pleasure.
lies lies, speak, but all you speak is nothing, lies lies lies, Nail shut the
coffin but a flood always comes and the nails grow rusted"
Do you think the haunting of lie ever goes away? Do you think lies are ever
Like my original work, want to take your soul for an adventure?! Then Grab yourself a copy of my book, you won't be displeased.
"Let your umbrella unfold, dance beneath the rain when others won't shelter you with the echoes of love my dear." Her mother said as she kissed her upon the forehead.
Sophia looking up at her mother smiles as she holds her pink umbrella above her head. Her mother, raising up from the kiss takes Sophia by the hand and they begin to walk. Sophia, only five and her father off on a business trip, her mother becomes lonely.
And so they walk, they walk through evenings, mornings, dusk's and dawns. Watching the graceful colors of sunsets and sunrises. Sophia's mother teach's her to admire the colors before them. Not just the wonderful vibrant colors, but also the dull. The gloomy streaks of darkness.
For everything has a purpose in this world. From the thunder storms to clear skies. Sophia, holding her mother's hands as they walk through the rain looks and up and asks, "Mother, why do you cry? Do the colors of this clouded night …
A Pocket Flower
I breathe upon the cold morning glass as I look out into the open plains of the country. And with my finger I draw a heart splitting in two, it quickly fades. I look back out into the world and design a new one.
I let my senses roam wild as imagination rushes from my head like water. Flooding my view with bountiful ideas. I see titans clashing, gods fighting, I see mysteries lingering in the lonely mist. I see monsters creeping from the distant moons and music flow gently from the darkened woods.
I watch golden leaves fall as the sun begins to rise. The soft tone of frozen grass begins to sparkle. I see birds thrust from their nests and chirp to the vast outreaches of nature. I am overwhelmed by what I see, and I smile.
I breathe again upon the cold morning glass. But this time, I draw a single heart held together. I let it fade as the last, but this time I breathe upon the glass once more. I observe the heart I drew with much thought, much intrigue.
I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt.
As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it.
I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing.
My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation.
I am comfortably wrapped for a day trip, but the su…