Micah Park Biffle

 A Wanderer  Guitar in hand and nowhere to go. This dusty road is barren and the sun is high. My body aches to rest but I am a wanderer of my music. I am in search of my muse, the siren that will call me. Leading me to my death, but not before exposing me bare to the wonders that hide within me.   My feet are sore, my boots are wearing thin. My beard is holding this dusty air and my throat is parched. It has been three days and I know not which way I should walk. Each path has appeared similar, dark, dusty, and desolate.   There have been no signs, no lights to signal a turn, a stop, or a cautious disposition. What have I done? Am I but another poor musician taken to the madness of his music? Never to find the glory that will give breath, life to my words, my songs?   Wait, what is that, that in the distance, between the waving waves of heat and the gritty plumes of dust? I see a light, a beaming light of red  in the distance. It is faint, but ...

He Could Have Quit  Cab is struggling in the race. His heart is beating quicker than the pace at which the rain is falling. The Georgia heat is basking upon his body. Sweat has consumed every thread he is wearing. Behind is the beast of Defeat and its father, Surrender.  His back is aching as the weight he carries increases with pain as he fights to keep stepping forward. The streets continue to incline and decline like a wild waves upon the sea. His eyes are focused to the front. Every ounce in his body wants to quit.   His mind is teetering on reasonable reasons to give up. To let go and fall away into the bliss of sitting down. But he can't, he refuses. He did not come this far to give up. To let sweat, pain, and challenges be the barrier of his dream.  So he fights, he clears his mind to keep going, to not falter and quit. As he keeps pushing, he hears the rumbling of Defeat and Surrender tailing him. Their dark luminous eyes glare over him as Cab kee...