Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
Lies Are Our Demise
Stars stare with
sorrowed eyes through a small window as night embraces with its dark silk skin.
A man sits alone behind cool brick and a window that sits too high. His hands,
his feet bounded by heavy chains but he will not defy. His eyes buried by black
rings, like that of a raven’s eyes. His face torn by the weather's harsh kiss
and the burdens of himself as he brews to the unwise. His body thin to bone,
weak from his suffering, he was once king. But now lay a false man, cut from
his throne, by the ill speaking of a lie. Too long, he thought it best to bury
to the sands of time. To let it be swaddled by truth as if to mummify. But
seekers of the past will always find.
He knows no place
hide as the moon beams high, sitting in the sky with a prying eye. As if
waiting for the confession of a crime. Its blue flesh shines brightly given
view to the man’s paradigm. But the man sees no joy in the light of the moon or
the eyes of the stars. He only feels the pounding of his heart, as it pumps him
with life behind these bars.
His hands shake with
grief as he looks to the sky, viewing what only he can see as he starts to cry.
Between what separates him from the world he fills heavy with guilt but his
tongue remains mute. His flesh sweats to the heat of summers night and still he
will not be absolute. But no warmth covers his soul, only torment for what’s
inside. And what’s inside, would leave all men petrified. But his lips sealed
he will not speak. The guards arrive with mallet in hand, each step a squeak.
Grasping with tense fingers, humming a sorrowed tune, it begins to consume. The
man hears the stepping of guards, each wallowing like the sound of fingernails
to chalkboard. The guards arrive with hands still clenched and the humming of a
The tune grows loud
as the guards turn key. The man cowards to the wall, pressing with boned flesh
covering his face with feeble hands as the guards announce themselves with the
screams of a banshee. The brick does nothing to comfort the man as he sits
hunched like coward. His eyes closed as he listens to the screeching of
the swinging cell door. Punishment swells his mind, his soul littered. Pale to
the ailments of the mans gnarled truth. Tears seep as the guard’s
approach tickling the ground like a cockroach. The sound of whimpering ceases
the guards, but only for a moment. Their faces brim with ugly
smiles. Maybe there will be voice to speak payment. They surround the frail man;
his stench burns the air. The guards hum their tune foully while striking
mallets against brick. Striking over and over till the sounds became like music.
The whimpering of the man grows louder, he man becomes hysterical, but will not
move from his wall. Do these guards not abide by protocol? The man screams with
shame yet his lips remain sealed, his tongue still mute.
The guards continue
their mockery of torment, looking to prosecute. A heavy pain weighs his gut
like the chains upon his flesh as the guards smile madly with maniacal laughter
and noise. The man shivers with fright but he will not speak. The guards stop,
the cell grows silent, all that is about, is the anxious tapping of the man’s
feet. The man hears nothing, he opens his eyes with caution. Lowers his hands
and carefully peers between the darkness of the night. And in the darkness,
stands the guards, silent, still. Looking down upon the man with conviction.
Their eyes as black as the night and their flesh as rotten as death. One begins
to hum, the man spazzes with fear covers his face. But the guards still do not
move, they remain in place. Again, the man lowers his hands, his face fearful
like a child. His eyes blister with sadness and guilt, his soul exiled. But
still he will not speak, still his lips are sealed, still his tongue is mute.
The guards begin to grow, expanding like balloons, their faces press closer and
closer. The man feels his silence grow root.
The air begins to
grow thin, sweat drips from his body like the ringing of a towel, no time to
refute. His mind spins with affliction as his heart speaks of persecution. The
guards begin to speak loudly as the humming of there the tune echoes in the
chamber with pleasure.
lies lies, speak, but all you speak is nothing, lies lies lies, Nail shut the
coffin but a flood always comes and the nails grow rusted"
Do you think the haunting of lie ever goes away? Do you think lies are ever
Like my original work, want to take your soul for an adventure?! Then Grab yourself a copy of my book, you won't be displeased.
A Summer Bird's Winter Perch I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself. Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey. Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all? Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe