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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A Dead Dreamer
A Dead Dreamer
They are grotesque, dull in vision, dull in life. They speak with disease, with illness. They see grey upon all flowers, mountains, and rain. They look no further than their breath, they speak no further than their day.
They find feast upon the damned, upon the withering fields of souls. Plucking newly planted seeds and devour with delight. They shackle their surrounding with bitter taste and soils of resentment. They spit at the nourishment of water. They poison their own wells and gladly share the contaminated. They see no fault in the dwelling of self.
They shift their tongues like the devil, they lurk in the hate of their own shadow. They seek no peace, only slaughter. Praising in the pain of their massacre. If murder was able, they would find themselves painted in blood. An abomination they be, sweltering in the anguish of the plain. Finding the finest escape in the false actions of flesh. It is in their shoes they find poverty of the soul.
Their is little hope for these broken, angered, and smut repleted minds. They carry fading winds like a child to its prized possession. They shriek and scream of horrors of life. Distorting their lips with
misconception, becoming slaves to their own lies. Finding false truth in their fiction.
These are dead dreamers, these are not who we should be.
A Beast Among the Flames
Lighting strikes the open plains setting the dry grass ablaze. Fires start to rise from the hill tops in the distance like signals. I can feel the heat from the flames that blaze only yards from me. The sweet scent of wet grass resonates against the smell of burning earth.
Smoke melds with the dark clouds above, forming a fondness for each other. I can feel my chest rising with heavy breaths as I prepare my mind. This is either the end or a start to another day. Kneeling on one knee I press myself up and stand.
I look around me as the world before me looks as if hell is bursting from earth. In the chaos I find serenity, for I am built for this, trained for this.
I finished my indulgence of my surroundings and pull my sword from the ground.
I raise it with my right hand pulling it near my chest. The point of my blade stands five inches above my head. I close my eyes and start to rhythmically pound the armor of my chest with my other hand.
"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 …
His Splitting Heart
Its madness, I quake in fever of your love. But I am stretched like a victim of Renaissance, slowly separated in two halves. Each yearning for something else. A tragic scene I have become, a mad creature of the desolate.
Dragging my halved corpse like a sickly dog by its collar. No strength to hold its own, only whimpers of defeat. I argue as if I am two, looking to my reflection as I am stained in the blood of my heart. I look of famine, my soul, desperate in the tears of love.
While I am lewd in my craving of what is denied of me. Corrupting my own lips upon black roses, straining the world of any color. Creating bleakness to be my romance. Candle light and lonely screams now fill my nights.
It's horror I wish to leave, yet, like an addict to the itch of narcotics; I pleasure in its familiar appeal. Though in the waking moments I plead for comfort. For peace in this delirious heart. For you shadow my mind with every passing thought.