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)
Imagination to Change
Imagination to Change
High up we take to our imagination, for the world around us is poor. Broken, an apocalyptic spectacle that teeters on the unforgivable. Hundreds of abandoned buildings stand with dark and dreary faces. Broken windows form with jagged edges. Doors hang like loose nails upon fingers and the walls slowly cave to the unwavering season of winter.
Empty lots of concrete split by the hand of nature. Weeds sprout like appendages reaching desperately for air. Once covered in the crust of heavy darkness they now breach with a chance of breath.
But how foreign they appear to us, to me and my brother. We have been here our entire lives, in this, dark phantasmal place. This cryptic realm of what we are told is reality. But something we have always felt lingers in our heads, this thought of a better place.
A place where people smile as you pass by. A place where the efforts of man are not stricken with disaster. A place where children live in homes that are not strung with disarray. A place no longer captive of worry for the next meal.
A place where bellies are filled at the whim of choice. Where winter is not a season to fear, but to enjoy. A place where children, parents, family and friends do not fear the night. Do not fear the constant possibility of death by the hands of their own.
Our bellies often ache through the day, but it has become the natural order of things. We are only two years apart, me and my brother. So we suffer along side each other with equal feeling. We neither go without conversation or the comfort of each other.
We are often alone in the desolate place as both our parents work two jobs. We are a humble family, though we be as broke as the next wondering soul of these streets. We pride ourselves in our hard work, our desire as a family to free ourselves of this suffering.
See, even our parents believe there is more to this reality than the dismal abandonment of structure, physical and spiritual. For too long has our family been trapped in the repetition of generations. The repetitive chaos of mediocrity.
And so our family has taken up the burden to live. To be the golden ropes that lasso the moon and pull it in. To bend the gravity of our past and toss it to the ocean of stars. And through such ambition, we, my brother and me.
Have built a legacy of imagination. We have strung wondrous thoughts inside our minds, our heads. We have created a world that shall be ours. Not only in thought, but in reality. For we have watched even our parents transform us from the poorest, walking bare foot from shelter to shelter.
To having shoes upon our feet. We are no slouches to the empty echoes of the old. But were are bold and imaginative architects of change. And so now we ride our hearts as if they are bulls. And we shall ride them till we can hold on no more.
A Wanderers Inn I have been traveling for thirty days. My horses are weak and I thirst dearly for water. My belly aches as hunger constricts my gut. I am fearful of death in such an unsuitable way. I have always seen myself dying in daring act of life. Be it in war or the saving of a child. Or maybe, even in the defeat of a dragon as I get one last blow with my blade before it strikes me down and it falls to its death beside me. Feeling its last breath of heat roll over my body as our eyes see only our fading souls. I have always thought my death would be glorious. Yet here I am, traveling alone with no more rations, nor water. My horses no longer walk with fervor but lackadaisical steps. And so I pray to find shelter before the cold takes us. Before the empty plains of barren trees and darkness finds us. I wish not to be detritus before my days. Decaying slowly to the maggots as my body lays helpless upon the earth. Becoming a gruesome vision of what lies inside. B
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 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