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 ...

Vanity Streets  I took my hand to the steering wheel and shoved my foot to the accelerator. The world around me became a blur. I felt the force of my engine press me back into my seat. Everything in my body tingled, a great sense of satisfaction covered my body.  The speed, the power, almost uncontrollable. I looked ahead of me, dead eye to the horizon, with no chance of looking back. I wanted nothing to do with he city behind me. As I sped down the highway, I took a glimpse in my rear view mirror.  I could see the city lights dwindle, I smiled as it was finally my time to leave. My tires left a mark, something for it to remind me by. Something, to show I care nothing about that city. It has become a hell hole of memories and foolish trends.  I loath everything about it. Everyday I could feel the weight of bullshit the people in that city permeated. It was like humidity sticking to your skin. No matter what you did, the moment you stepped outside, you we...