Micah Park Biffle

Champagne Wane   I remember her well, like one remembers the death of a friend. Something you never forget and something that forever remains. And though we were destined to die, as does the ash from a burning pipe.  I still taste her, feel her as if she is the wind and the savory smoke of a cigar. She's last nights Bourbon, shes the morning dew, the frozen ice that hangs, waiting to melt; waiting to fall. But there are no hands, no hearts that can catch her.  For she is too cold, frigid like the Arctic plains. She will flow to you like a severed glacier. And in her lonely state she shall find you upon a sandy shore, just as she found me. And like distant stars she will shine, glimmering with a call for love.  She will reach out with a soft whisper as her rosy cheeks grip you with lust. And you, the lonely fool upon a sandy shore in midwinter. Will reach out with a hand, quivering to the brisk air and you shall risk the bite of  raw ocean tears....

 Drown My Heart  Drown this heart! I scream as I plunge it beneath the depth of the ocean. Drown it till it can beat no more! It has no place here. For I am empty of any love, my senses are absent. As absent as breath is to death.  Let a corpse be my existence for the twinge of life I have allowed it to cripple me. But I have given no cane to my soul and no hope to my mind. Let the water suffocate what is left, what shall save me? Nothing, for I have swept myself clean of any desire to stand beneath the stars nor the moon.  Let me vanish from the sunsets. Let me be a shadow of every night and the shade of every morning. For this heart is miserable. It drips of tar, a blackness gripped in the bowels of misery. I bear only contempt for my actions, myself.  I have allowed fear to be my guide and have watched love fade because of it. So close I have been, so close to the warmth of love but, I am dirt flung upon any flame. And so be it, the silence of my...

 Severed Filament    We were something or so I wish to say. But I know we were but a momentary filament. A connection quickly severed by timing. An unwilling heart to expose itself sat shivering beneath my chest. I swallowed every ounce of fear as if an antidote for disease.   Shortly lived were we. Our light dimmed by insecurities. Our hearts never to spark a lasting light. Doomed from the start. I fumbled the bulb and upon my ribs it broke. Shattering to the bleak hallows of my thoughts. A swamp seeping with pity as if sadness will attract is an attraction for love.   What heart desires the weak? What heart desires the glum of a lonely soul? None, and those that stand preaching they do. Are merely looking for pity to fix that which lies within their own skin. But deny the remedy to heal.    Their hearts always given to another, never to please themselves. They walk with eyes lethargic to beauty. Clambering to fill a void with more sadness...

A Whole Heart     How do you find the courage to be loved again? To be open to the risk of pain and torment? How does one become whole again in the adventure of love? What must be done to no longer be at the limits of your walls? What must I do?  I think this as I sit alone, picking at the pieces of my heart. Placing them upon a table, motionless. Pieces of something that used to flourish, prosper beneath the gentle cool of the stars. Carefully I prod and poke with the edge of a blade. Investigating the scars, the creases, the cracks. Every inch of every piece.   Hoping to find an answer, a missing link. A remedy of a broken heart. But all I can find are wounds, scabs that have churned grey and blood that ceases to pour. A crust like the earth has settled upon my ventricles. Clotting any chance of breath. My heart is merely a representation of what was.   A sad ensemble of horrific cuts. A collage of regrets covered in the misery of rejection...

   My Execution of Love Do as you wish, this heart is a traveler of darkness. Scars have found home upon my heart like termites to rotting foundation. Day by day my heart slowly crumbles, it is nothing without you. Without us.   I am catatonic to love. Frozen in the position of melancholy. A possession of dark clouds have gathered in my mind. I wear a cloak of obsession, an obsession to drown this catastrophic wound.   My floors are covered in lust as I pounce from lips to lips. Seducing the hearts as bleak as mine. But no matter the sedation, I can hear you, feel you. My eyes are green, envious of your ease to cope; to find another.   I have shriveled to bone, to dust. Place me in your hand and I will be blown to the faintest wind. Wild images of darkness shade my thoughts. But if I had the chance to tell you of these, would you even care or would you do as you did when you left?   Walking in blankness as if nothing had meaning. It hurt, our...

Your Heart is A Battleground   You're heart is a battleground. Wounded with misery, streaming down the corridor of your walls like paint drying upon canvass, a crimson hue. Echoes of warriors yell from the suffering you have beard and shall bear.   It beats with vigor but holds graves of many. Transformed in each battle you have lost something, but gained much more. Though you are a rhythm of pain, there is beauty in the gloom. The fields at which you fought now spread with golden wheat.  Eagles soar in the fresh winds in the feasting of varmints as you move on. Brave, unwavering to the endless bouts of suffering. Unsheathing your blade from the vanquishing of your enemies. You have  bled love from each wound and have filled the veins of your flesh with heartbreak.  But have fought your way to cleanse the polluted rivers of your heart. You have never been silent in the abuse of self, nor in scene of your enemies attempts to murder...

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...

An Act,  A Scene,  A Love With One Side  V: "May I be as bold to say, I love you?! Or am I fool for placing my heart to the quiver of your soul? For I know you speak as if your heart is no longer a place for love. I know your tears fall not for me, but for the former, and the lonesome hole that reverberates in reminder of your fragile being." A: "Yes, you are fool for such a thing. For I am torn in pieces, scattered among many, devoured in their mouths and never given peace. I am a fool myself, for I dwell well in the former. Cutting my own wings from my back. For I fear, that if I fly, I will collapse under the gravity of another's heart. That I shall never feel myself again, nor the warmth of another. I am better in quarry of the broken, than seeking the blood of love." V: "I feel your pain, I hear it as clear as the rain upon my roof. I have listened well and gave tribute in your pain. We have exchanged bodies, even soul...

A Whiskey Love  The whiskey settles upon her lips. She clears the resting residue with her tongue. Placing her glass down she raises her eyes to the pink horizon as a tears falls from her eye. A wallowing pain of memories hack at her beating heart. A small pick strikes away with each sip of whiskey. She forces an aching smile upon her face. Places her hand around her glass and takes another sip. But the whiskey is not enough, the pain still cries out with a heavy presence. She lowers her eyes from the sky and looks to the whiskey that sits in her hand. She examines it with curiosity in hopes it will suffocate the misery that saturates her heart; at least for a brief moment. But nothing suffices for comfort. So she places the glass down, another tear falls. She tries to articulate the pain that strangles her. But she shutters in agony and reaches into the right pocket of her jacket that is draped on her chair. From it she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a small pink l...

An Unfortunate Love Do I begin at the start, or at the end? Where do I begin my dear? This is far from where I thought we would be. Strung out on the misery of missing hearts. Coiled in the cold colors of the Arctic, gorgeous, but untouchable. A mere reflection of what could have been. Distant memories fall like rain, flowing to the nearest river. Only to find their way to the ocean and blend to the others. Where do I start? My heart is no longer what it is, I hold it in my hand; it beats no more. The blood, dry, petrified upon my flesh. Murder I think, was this me? Am I the executioner of our hearts?  I do not know, for your lips are no longer mine to taste. Your voice, no longer mine to hear. But I beg with quivering teeth and a body as stiff as death, tell me where I led you wrong? Was it the constant shifting of my emotions? I know I am no saint in the handling of my mind. Or was it the absence of my affection? I know, I shiver in the act of tenderness, it fr...

The Grief of Love  Grief it may bring, the sad echoes of the broken. Like dead trees in the sulking of winter rains, with no leaves to bear, only the skeleton at which they clung to. The empty soils of tears and the bleeding of a broken heart. The screaming of the chest leaving one open to the voices of the shuttered ghosts of the flimsy, at the unappointed hands of desolation. Eyes of declining sunrises, only to be kempt by vapors of the dejected view at hand. Poured in the distressed memories of sorrow stirred in the fading hopes of soulful thoughts. Like the black cat in the crossing of the street, one conveys their superstition to not allow it to pass. So their days are lived in the anxious of what shall never proceed further than their own mind. Unwilling to fetch the bones that held together their heart. Leaving their sorrowed soul to the transfer of agony. Experiencing the howls of who they once were as it is ripped from them, like calf is taken for the joy of me...

A Master Piece of Beauty  This distant feel calls from the stars. A strange but warming sensation, my heart beating in a fluttered pen of wings. My gut, twisted, but warm; I feel, what one would say, nervous and happy. It feels as if the stars are being flirtatious in with their presence. Turning cheeks and batting eyes, and I, no thought on how to react. I blush, turning my eyes to the ground like a child nervous upon his first kiss. My skin, feels light, almost as if its pulling me to the heavens. A wisp of air catches my cheeks and I am warmed by a smile. I pursue in pleasure of the moment, though my tongue quivers in anxiety. I am lost for words, for the beauty I am presented before my tired soul. Is elegant, its vibrant, its.....unspeakable. Why has it revealed itself to me? I am but just another soul seeking fortitude among the cold and lonely snow. Following trails of footsteps before they are taken by the rain. Washed away, never to be seen again, fleeting to t...

One More Day I say One more day I say, as tears fall upon my chest. My heart overwhelmed in the stresses of the daily. Scrapping by as bills gnaw at the waist of my heart. I can only hope, that some day, these anxious days shall be behind me. That I will no longer gasp for the air of serenity, for peace of mind. That I will be able to rise from my bed and no longer feel as if I am sunken in a pit of sand. Where days will no longer drag on in the worry of uncertainty, of restless thoughts of, will this be the month I collapse? Will this be where all of what I am becomes nothing more than a pitiful surrendering sack of fragile bones? But one more day I say, as I hold dearest to my pillow. Crying in silence as I fear my weakness to shake will hinder me friendship. That I will be but a spoiled painting one purchases only out of the kindness of their heart. As one would buy from a child.    But one more day I say, as I look to grey clouds that eagerly posture themselve...

The Travels of Barren Darkness Why do I find myself between these insensate states of lull?  These heavy lethargic waves hold me breathless with each moment. My shore appears further and further as I struggle to swim myself to its hold. Many speak of this feeling as a haze, a dark cloud strangling their thoughts till they cease the want to think. Leaving them barren to guilt, feasting on sadness as if that is all there is to set upon their plate.  Their tears fall with each meal and hydration of the soul becomes forgotten. Truthfully, I believe many, such as myself, find a strange comfort in this distant field of sorrow. We enjoy the encrusted trees that wilt to even the slightest breeze. We find an odd beauty to the screaming of soils.  The iridescent lighting holds us mesmerized. The moon gazed in the infestation of darkness delights our creative will to build something from it.  Though we may plunge to the deepest caves of this grievous land...

An Unfortunate Story   His slumber is deep, his heart is light. But in the midst of a midnight hour, a knock reaches his door. He quickly wakes from the resounding sound of the knock. His eyes slowly adjust to the pitch black surroundings. He turns to the left side of his body, reaching into the darkness feeling for a candle. In his blind state upon the dark night, he finds the candle at the edge of his night stand. His steady but somewhat worrisome tact, he almost knocks the candle from its rightful place. But he catches it with the embrace of his index and thumb. He reels it in with slight struggle and sits up in bed.  Again, he hears the knock. His head promptly turns toward the noise. He stills himself as he listens for the knock once more. But it ceases, and as the silence coats his home in an eerie hold. He leans to his left once again and opens the drawer to his night stand. A distinct sound of old wood composes itself from the drawer.  Onc...

No Longer The Hollow Doll She is no longer the hollow doll that sat upon her shelf. Those tired eyes that caved with empty darkness no longer curse her. She sits no more lonely in the corners of her room. Fidgeting at the strands of her hair. She now lathers her mane in the warmth of water and wondrous grace of castile. Her eyes glow with the brilliance of candy apple green. Her lips coated now in the blush of red. She wears her shoulders with confidence. Her chest swells with wind as each breath is inhaled with courage, as well as exhaled in spirit. Her skin is no longer the complexion of a paled witch. Nor does it flake of the dead as if to be the home of the deceased. It no longer crawls with irritation of pestering itch. It holds now an amber haze, it glistens in under the sun as it is kissed by rain. It lives upon her as if she is held by a god of bronze. Her walk no longer swamped in the eager thoughts of meekness. Her strides reach with perfect poise. Each step peel...

Darling, Love Again Darling cry no more, for he deserves no tears of yours. Though agony may have found place in your heart, the wonders of love still await you. A man of loyalty, of constant faith awaits your hand. Be still, be patient, but while you wait. Become consumed in your existence. Find where you belong within, search no storms outside of yourself. Cry if you must, but cry to grow, swing in the branches of life. Be gentle to your soul, but become not the most agreeable in the room. Be steady in the awaking of your heart. For many waves shall wish to drown you, be not worried for shore. For much food swims beneath you, be skillful in the survival of your desires. Cease not the reaching of your goals and settle in fear of the spinning hands. There is no wrong in wishing for love, for living for what binds us. For what creates a growing earth. And though upon your journey, your streets may be empty. Hugged in barren trees and a somber haze, carry on. For there is mag...

Verses In Solitude A verse is nothing more than a verse, when shaded from skies. What intention one gives it is no matter if he, the care taker of the verse allows no planting of such verses he has written. If a poet is to shelter his dominion what is the existence of his words? If not nothing more than a string of letters crumbled together in a symmetrical and orderly fashion. Are words meaningful if not shared with the wallowing eyes of others? Are they heard, like the tree that fell in the woods? Even if one is to write for himself and himself alone, in the confines of his chambers, do the words truly heal? Or is it upon the rationing of these words to others that bring meaning, that bring healing? For, if no other is present to see a poets transformation from his dull living space, to something of the utmost prestigious growth one can have from words. Has he truly grown, or is he still who he was before his thoughtful verses? For if no other sees him, from what he once ...

Present your soul with a gift A Man's Traveled Heart The Victim Of Sheep In an instant it was gone, all of it. The wolf had sank its teeth into what breath was left. And I, helpless to the scene before me. I watched in horror as the sound of flesh was pierced by pearled teeth, eyes glaring from darkness. All was taken, all was forsaken. My heart became ill but I could set no motion into existence. For it was not I whom became the victim of the sheep. I was not the one whom'd screamed for freedom but lived in feign. Acting to be a scarecrow of sorrow, left alone in the fields of misery. For I pulled myself from the withering corn and led myself to the open grains of wheat. And as blood gushed from paling flesh, it spilled in rhythm from the mouth of the wolf. And the teeth held strong, as the sheep squirmed with little resistance. But no panic came from me, for some fall victim to their own annihilation. Following the trail of paralyzed. Listening too closely to their...

Abused But Not Hopeless Three children and alone, abused in the last torment of what she thought was the opportunity of blooming lilies. Hoping to string them across her neck in the display of artistry between her and the love she had for her relationship. But quickly were the flowers trampled on beneath her mans lack of self-esteem. Bridging his hate for himself upon her and her children. And oh did he show it well, his hatred for himself. Sly in his words but weak in his actions. Raising his hand not only to her, but to the children. Leaving bruises, welts, eyes that would bring one to shiver upon seeing such brutality. His ever so false chivalry would play well after the fact. Creating his sorrow to be theirs, reaching for forgiveness but with horns. Hiding his scars, creating the children to be a burden to his wealth and his mental well-being. Nights would pass and not a single plate of food would be served. For she had no job, and his tongue would speak ugly to her own...