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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Seventy Years Of Love
Seventy Years Of Love
Waves collide as laughter echoes through the cold air. Two, walk the shore line as kisses are exchanged in the collection of love. A melody erupts within their hearts, a melody so strong, a thousands symphonies could not match it.
The stars dance along, shining bright in this moment. Hands held together, creating a single point of strength. As bare feet press gently into the sand, leaving behind memories. Washed away the sand becomes barren of any indentations.
But they walk on, with no time to look back. As the night takes them to far away places. Diving deep into eyes, finding the wonders of the soul. Feeling the cool ocean caress their feet. It is perfection in now, everything fits. They sit at the shore as they gaze upon the moon. Swooning in this moment with nothing else upon their minds but eachother.
They turn with romance and embrace. The waves crash upon their bodies, rushing away with just enough force to make them feel as if to be pulled back. Love binds them, this moment binds them. Piano strokes find themselves within their hearts.
They take up stance, pressing their bodies close and begin to dance. They waltz along the shore and look to nothing else but each other. Memories play in a reel as they smile with no regrets of the steps they have taken in each other.
Adventure was once their life, great heights of joy. But now they are two fallen leaves from a tree. Slowly following the wind as it pushes them. Seventy years and not a moment less. Each year better than the next. Though much frustration found itself in the cracks of love.
But no great thing is held by feeble hands, nor built overnight. -----
Thank you for reading, I hope love finds you as it found these two.
The Blameful Two The world broke as their hearts bled the shadows of their misery. Seeping upon the world, flooding with the scars of agony. Their eyes trembling beneath the moonlight as their blood stained hands shimmer. Their lips sewn as each is caught in a lie. Both bare, exposed to their duality. Their curtains drawn thus unmasks the bodies they have slain. The skeletons of truth dragged through the spoils of deceit. Each, unwilling to speak. Their cheeks flush in rose petals. Their skin taut to the anxiety of their arrest. They are now the victims of themselves and each the other. Two hell's preached in the underbelly of their weakness. The fraudulent thought in avoidance of pain. And now they stand as nude as the beginning of life, Adam and Eve. Shaking, they are without words. Silent, bearing only tears that fall to the blood soaked floors. The dark whirlpools of hypocrisy. Neither is without sin and neither is without murder. Their souls weep dearly a
The Moles Never Learn 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 tr
The Choice of History There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death. It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction. Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud. But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if only one dares to find it. To l