Micah Park Biffle

A Mountain Tragedy  It's an early morning, the sun has yet to crest over the mountain tops as we drive down from their man made veins. It has just rained, the water is settled upon the dark asphalt with gentle reflections. Ahead of our view is endless trees.  They hug the sides of the streets with great command. They stand silent, expressing a magnitude of brilliance, brilliance nature has built over millions of years. It has been three days since we were last home. The weekend spent in the flesh of the mountains has been amazing.  There is nothing quite like the views that the teeth of the world bare. You feel so small when you reach the top, overlooking the vast expanse of nature. Its bristled hair of green, its pools of tears and clouds of mist resonate deep in the soul.  You know you belong among it, yet there is an unfamiliarity of it. Like a distant cousin you have never met till today. You know your blood is of the same line, yet you know nothing o...

Fall Gloom Beauty of Gray    Death has come upon our summer days. Slain are the days of warm mornings and nights of a cool breeze. We are now upon the lips of fall, slowly consumed till we are in the bitter embrace of winter.  The once open skies are now the victims of the dreary. The frigid gasp of October and the sinking eyes of November. We are now unkindly taken by darkness before our eyes open. The grey skies glaze our souls in the dim.  Our hearts become heavy as the drizzle of sorrowed clouds weep upon our streets. Our steps become cautious as we keep weary to pools of rain. Quickly can our days become uncomfortable as the steady weeping of the sky gives no hope of silence.  But in these bleak and colorless months, there is much between the grey; the cold and frozen. There are colors that only fall can birth. Oranges that cripple a leaf but bring sight to a dying season. There are moments so close to those we love, that summer cringes in jealo...

A Wizardry Death   The old wizard Seper, has his home atop a small hill at the end of the village. Orange groves surround the base of  the hill like a maze. The sweet scent of the groves can be smelled throughout the entire village if the wind sweeps through at just the right direction.  Seper's home is quaint, it is large enough for himself and his wolf Helten. Inside is a surmountable collection of magical things. From liquids, powders, to books of magic that can only be read if you have the spell to read them.   Seper is ninety three years old but is spiritedly as ever. Wizards have an average life span of two-hundred and Fifty. He has a silver beard that reaches his knees and has eyes of turquoise. Some say, his eyes are where he stores his magic.   Every day Seper wakes up and draws open the shutters of his home. Allowing whatever elements to interact with his home. Seper enjoys the company of nature, it is where he spends mo...

The Restoration of an (Outgoing) Introvert It's not that I don't want to see you, it's that I can't. I can't do this anymore, I am exhausted. Every waking hour, it is them, you, us, him, her, this that. A barrage of active minds in world I find wonderful but grow tired of. I am not dulled by your presence or any others. I am rather, drained, as one might be after excreting themselves in exercise. I need time to present my heart, my mind, with silence. With myself and myself alone. Allow me to play my instruments without an audience. Without the subtle hints that you want to do something else. Let me be quiet for moments to come and let time fade between the bones of my flesh. Trickling through like atoms of earth. I need to bring nourishment from the quiet waning of stillness. No motion, but the beating of my heart. No sound, but the calming of my thoughts. I love....you, all of you as I did yesterday, but today, today I am spent of vitality. I am rece...

Unopened Letters  He struck up a match and lit the candle that sat upon his desk. Upon the candles embrace of the flame he blew out the match and watched the smoke fade. His face shifted in the dancing light, one might say it skewed the truth. He then looked around his small cottage and began to check the doors and windows; ensuring they are sealed shut. His walk is slightly subdued by his lame leg. Injured from an harrowing event; but he dares speak of it. He prefers the ever echoing silence of the memory. Never giving more than a glimpse to others to ignore his disabled leg. After checking his very limited perimeter he walks over to his fire place. He leans over a small pile of logs as he adjusts his leg to adhere to his desired posture. He then grabs a log in one hand and chucks it into the middle of the fire place. He then reaches for another and another, he then alters their position. Allowing them to be more feasible to the igniting of flames. Once the logs are s...

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. ...

What Keeps You Moving? What keeps you afloat in this drowning but dazzling world? Is it the flowers that bloom regardless of how bitter or harsh winter was? Do you find the drive to keep pressing on because of your children, your family, or friends? Or is it the fear of ever falling back to where you were? To lose all you have gained and become the frail pawn of sadness once more. To plummet to that dark alley where the scathing embrace of misery laid its head. Where the repugnant aroma of suffering breathed it breath. Leaving you soiled in its heated fluids of loathing. Causing the shivering of your soul as if to be a lonely child to the abuse of an unsightly offender. That empty room where you consumed the darkest thoughts as if it would bring hope. That addiction of agony that few truly understand. That excruciating feeling of wishing to expire and succumb to the insufferable call of death. What keeps you going? For what ever keeps you going, I pray the clari...

Capture The Fading and Lose the Moment Capture this moment, not in a frame but in the heart. Let it live like a subtle kiss upon the head. Be gentle in the holding of it. Cherish it, embellish it's existence upon its rising memory. For only once will this happen, only once will this moment be. Time has slipped, there is no going back. There is no sand to hold in your frail hands. Though you may be strong, death is seeping into your veins with each breath. And their is no cure, for life is hard on all, for we all are victims of an end, of time. Hold tight to the traditions between friends, between love. For they are but a symbol for what was once something fresh. Bringing harmony to the passing of time. Creating a well of healthful memories. Do not fret in the loss of passing time. As long as you abide by the desires within, taking action far from the temptations of the instant. You shall find yourself expanded beyond the stars. Ecstasy will entrench your body. F...

A Love I Plead To Be Free Of There is no room for you anymore. These memories I wish no longer to store, I am sick of being dragged as if I am a corpse. A dead man for your pleasure to horde. To only speak to me when you are bored. I no longer wish to be a part of your dreadful story, let me soar. Let me find the better part of me though it may cut to my core. We are but a endless tragedy, a massacre, a war. Let me morn no more what we could not have. Your lips tainted, left me sore. Your heart became mine, though you never opened the door. And I waited with much patience as I tried to restore, acting to be a savior. But nothing could be done, you wore armor, and I had no encore. I could take no more, finding myself in a drugstore. Buying cheap spirits to leave me feeling no more. I deplore, let me be, let me roar, still you cling to me. Our memories I want no more. You linger at the back of my mind, you gnaw, I bleed, I scream, but cannot get free. Chains I have given you...

Follow me on  Twitter A Thankful Sacrifice Voices gather throughout this home, as a fire is lit, and music plays softly as children dive rigorously  into their imagination. Smells christen the air as they waltz across the sense of pleasurable memories that bring no burden.  The music delicately coats the home like the rising color of crimson along the morning horizon. All is certain in this moment as all have this day in common. No one is forgotten, no go hungry in this is this day that glistens.  Cheerful spirits lift this home from any friction and all become gladdened. The weather frosts the grounds but in here, among the fire, that plays with a hot hand of a chemical heathen. None are opposed or notice the cold. As they drink and laugh among the sweet scent of lemon.  The elders gather the children and begin to tell tales of the magical huntsman. The one that saves the princess from an evil legion. And finds himself against a tho...

This Is My End  This could be my end, my end where my breath ceases to weave with the wonders of life. This could be where my words no longer linger in the depths of my heart. Where my shadows finally find the bitter nuggets of my regret, and devour them with thrill. I have many regrets, and though they haunt, I have found them to muse my words. To bring extraordinary thought to mind. Creating immense designs with the architecture of the soul. Building immortality between the lines of language. This, may be the moment I become ash and am whisked away to the heavens. To see everything or nothing, so be it the wish of God.  And where I end, upon my fall to earth, either in the pleasure of life, or in the misery of my own undoing. Either end, I have kissed the lips of life and danced with the wings of death. I have felt suffering and I lived happiness. I have found love, and I have lost it. I have drank in the spirit of life and been glutton in the spirit of man. A...

Become The Angel You Pray For  Fly fly fly! Fly till your wings can hold you no more. And when you fall, fall with grace, fall knowing you will fly again. Rest your wings upon the clouds of faith. Hold dear your heart to your dreams. Glide across the open oceans of your life and catch the waves head on. Sail bravely against the storms though you may break. And upon breaking, you shall find new ships, new wings, new winds to sail. For nothing new is found in the mundane, in the wreckage of the old. Spark your heart with a kiss for the unexpected, the unknown. Bleed your soul of the old, of the used and stitch what remains with the grace to lift you. You are the ideal being to create your dreams. To build a solid ship that will turn waves of cruel ruin, into gentle ripples of a puddle . Split your oceans in two with the mere faith that you have within yourself, and with that which is intangible. Be the lighting that strikes, but do not strike out of fear. Strike out ...

Are Dreams But Not Another World?  Could we be existing in the heaven's or the hell's as we sleep? For what we dream, emulates what we forge within. Are our dreams not the crossing over to another world?  Where all answers are found but skewed in the comprehension of the living. For many of our dreams doddle on the unanswerable, but draw us to believe there must be meaning.  Meaning, we may choose to ignore with the rashest thoughts. Or bore our dreams with denial to our own well being. Looking at them as if a mere jumble of pictures from what the day had brought to us. But like the gut, the intuition, we know there is something  more to us. More than the beating of our hearts or the ticking of our minds.  Have we not all consumed the feeling of our gut in the decisions of life?  Have we not all ignored this feeling of knots that taut our stomach like string, but fail to untie it, to follow it?  Leading us to disapp...

Evil Will Always Breathe Evil exists beyond our comprehension, it exists as feelings do, as love does. No measurement, no math can explain these things. Evil is sly with motives, filthed with no shame. Its heart engorged in blood lust, in anger, evil has no reason. As does the existence of smiles, there is the opposite. As does the existence love, there is the counter. Evil has no conformed form. It lives within the splice of the physical, of the spiritual. It drips upon those whom swallowed sorrow like a pill. With each drip slowly rusting the soul like metal to harsh rain. Till the soul can move no more, till it becomes particles of what it once was. left rusted with holes and bland in color, its once exuberant essence, now absent. Taken by the shrewdness of evil and evil cannot be explained and never should be. For the explanation of that which is intangible, will drive one to madness. Losing sense of faith, belief, and the strive for something beyond. Turning blind...

Mukilteo Beach, WA 2014 In The Tears of The Former I can't be strengthened in one who dwells in tears of the former. For no roots take hold in soils that are ill. No flowers bloom in the bitter tundra of pity. I have lent my heart to those who have found addiction in the forgotten, in the false bliss of yesteryear. And I have felt much pain in the lending of my heart upon their endless pursuit to grasp what is no longer. Like a weight chained to my flesh, they were a burden with each step. No words could conquer their fortified soul, a soul caped in nostalgia. For in the former they deemed those times as the better. But no flower goes without the withering of seasons. The shedding of pedals is always to come. As painful as winter may be, no strength can come of holding to winter. For in the coldness you will find the illusion of depression without the seeking of shelter. For what may have worked in summer, may no work in winter. The tending of new roofs may be needed,...