Micah Park Biffle

 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...

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 Poetic Thought A dime a dozen, a smile. The attraction of the unexpected, the never sought out. Wandering the pastures of an open heart. Leading with no concrete expectation. Breathing in the salted air as waves gently crash. Passing the fading past as if it is but only a foot print to be drowned. Listening with calm ears, following with eyes of magnificent curiosity as the seagull passes above. Calling out to the sea in search of others. Spreading wings to guide even in the coldest of days. Storms bolster with arrogance. Wavering a tantrum of rage, eventually calming in the wake of empty praise. Scars of the rash, but a remedy can be; plucked from the burdens of the chest. Shared in the commons of suffering. Letting no ill memory be the waking of thought. Standing steady even in the rush of agony. Allow no avalanche of tragedy to condense the purpose of life. Bleed from only the mistakes, the failures. Burrowing hills, reaching the peaks of mountains. Creating an abundan...

A Scarecrow Soul I know not what is left, nor where I'm trying to go. Everything has become dull, no longer do I glow. I am a dying star that fades between the moon and the sun. Afraid to shine for I feel I have nothing left to grow. A field of empty souls is all I seem to know. I am but a broken vase tossed from the comfort of my shelves. I am shattered, battered by the hands of my own ghetto. Dancing in the dim limbo of dead crows, ergo, I am a feast for death. But thought is still brought, though I wish to breathe nothing. I clamber to be a maestro of the infernal, for there, I feel I have something to follow; an end. My ego sits hung from the hollow halls of my rotted chateau. Plastered like a Fresno I crumble with no caring of my colors. Stretched out, my mind weak, I tread upon a plateau. Flat, empty, stranded in an abyss as I stand in the middle. A scarecrow, a symbol to advert the whispers of light. Drained myself dry of marrow; given to the damned. My soul, n...

Make Not a Decomposing Heart Hearts will come and hearts will go, some will be welcoming. Some will be harsh, plucking yours as if a cherry; feasting upon it for the delight of their own appetite. Savoring the nectar that flows upon their lips like a wine cast from the ages. But yours shall always stay, and it may harden through the harsh travels ahead. Maybe it already has. Maybe it weighs of stone and beats of tar. But it is your heart, and no others can understand it. You must learn to preach to it, spill your pain to the vastness before you. Write it upon the walls of your ribs. Allowing no wounds to fester, be not a melancholic wanderer. Ending dead in actions of others, as if a counter part of Poe. Life is no downward slop. It is a path of treacherous and loving things. It will bleed you dry if you let it. It will bury you beneath the soils of earth before you even die. It can cause disdain upon those around you, though you be the sickness that ill's you. But lif...

The Ego of Man This ego, this thing, this voice that pleasures in the destruction of self. It whispers with naive tendencies. It tells you to hide, when you are shy. It speaks that you are to weak, to frail to speak up, that doing so, you will look a fool. That you will become the outcast like a lame child to war. This ego, it inflates the ideals of man. Pleasuring it self with pain, or the eccentric greed of flesh. Telling one to dress in attire to be presentable when one is working to sweat. It tells the fragile ego of a man, to strain himself, though injury may incur. It tells the woman, her hair is one inch too short, one inch too long. No man will adore such a look, change it quick. It tells the woman, that her make up is too much, to little. It tells them to look pretty, though she already is. This ego, it pulls the heart of man, like oceans pulled by the moon. Often it spreads itself like a virus, undetected, recognized as a simple protein of the body. Only later, t...