Micah Park Biffle

I am No Doctor of Your Soul I don't see any end to this unexcited down pour of your so called tears of misery. For if I remember correctly you spoke of change. Yet here you are, hanging on the tail of my coat. Begging me to comfort your tender soul. Knowing well of what my heart feels of you. What sickly ego you must bear, willing to reach to me in your time of need. Though this be a familiar need, with a familiar problem. A problem I cannot console even if you handed me the key. No, I do not wish to ignore you, but it must be done. For your soul is not the only soul between us. Mine stretches with both arms. Expanding in the desire to be a part of yours. But I have grown to know this is a fools errand. It cannot be done, for your soul reaches to no one. I now hear the fiddle that plays from the roof of your heart, and I hear the rhythm of the devil flows from it. I don't wish to condemn you to your misery, but it seems you are not exhausted of it. I fear it has beco...

A Distant Heart I do not know the callings of connection. Linking one heart to the next, only bruises. I know not the beauty that strings from the correlation of common affection; blood or not. I am strangely distant in my taking of such things. Arms length is my comfort, it is the distance I allow my heart. Even then, I am cautious to contemplate the display of it. Even in the ideal of family I pose a gap between each member. Most would seem that I am reposed in my position of such a thing. Friends, and dare I say family; see me as welcoming and open. But I steer between the fine lines of loving and caring. I skate the outer lines of it all, keeping my hands to my back and heart to my chest. No need, nor the want of my pulse to pump from sleeve. For there, any can see its pattern and carefully concoct a scheme to poison. To place me beneath a spell and travel with little discretion. I fear I was born with an unpleasant amount of empathy, even my enemy I care deeply for. ...

Empathy Is Our Apocalypse  The world is gone, not a single structure stands as it did before. Sands from far away lands, now rest here as if is to be their home. Cultures of others cleansed in the name of these sands. Deserted like the desert, threads of architecture split from the ground like slivers. Ashes cover the skies, the smell of burning flesh and gun powder enthrall the senses in disgust. Food is scarce, the weather, fickle against the black blind of clouds. It is a carnivorous scene, it looks as if the devil had kissed the earth. Screams from the distance echo through empty city streets. Filling the ears of those alone with much doubt, much horror. Feral beasts feast upon the dead with wild insatiable hunger. No communication but that of face to face and hand delivered letters is all that exists. Flames burn constant from the expulsion of oil from the earth. Families fear death as putrid souls gather in haste to take control. Pillaging the weak, murdering th...