Micah Park Biffle

 Lady Isabella and The Violinist   I see her, her blues eyes casting moonbeams through the dark crowd. I can't resist, her allure is, magnificent. She is a baroque among this shadowed audience, but they are blind to her beauty, her light. Unaware of her elegant presence as she glows between the mingling of others.  Her lips stained with crimson and her pale skin blush with rosy cheeks. I can feel her from across the room as one feels their own hear. I am enraptured by her, the moment I found her, saw her. Infatuated with this mystery woman of refinement, I make my way through the crowd with careful urgency while holding my drink.   I see she holds no champagne of her own, a waitress is near by as I cross through the blind audience. I grasp a full glass from the waitress tray with ease, a fluid confidence takes me. Maybe it is the melody of the piano that softly plays among the mumbling of the party.  Or maybe, it is her. Maybe she knows she has...

 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 ...