Micah Park Biffle

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...

A Boy and A War  The train had just left the station, his thoughts creep with nostalgia as he watches is home fade into the horizon. His chest holds a nervous wreck, only seventeen and knows nothing beyond his home. He wears an old green t-shirt with red lettering that reads, The Red Menace is real.  His hair short, cut in the manner of a well respected boy. His eyes glitter with sadness as he has to leave everything behind. He knew this day would come but he wasn't ready, he had just graduated high school and was ready for adventure. But now, he is well pressed into the chaos of the world. About to be armed in the fighting against a world enemy. For months he had heard the stories and updates of the war on the nightly radio. But it was all too surreal that he will now be part of such stories. He can still hear the radio announcer speaking of the enemy bombarding the world as if to rid it of cancer. As the train moves further from his home he can still feel the tear...

The Flavor of War A roaring crowd of excitement and love. The return of fathers, sons, and brothers. Relief is the scent of the heart in this beating moment. At least, that is what it seems to be; but returning from the horrors of war, many are broken, but unaware. Shadows drag behind closed eyes as they speak with loquacious tongues. Creating seamless memories to haunt with vivid realities. Tones of hell creep from the guilt that putrefies the soul. Rotting it with inflamed shame. Coating the mind in endless darkness as pale eyes gaze with memory. Calling out the shadows that be the ghosts of battle. Flashes of heat engulf the body at rest; waking in an alert of anxious recollection of what one hopes to omit with the passing of time. But hell knows of no such passing. It embodies itself in the pasture of mind and body. Entangling with depraved taste for madness. Boiling the mind in copious memoirs of terror; the actions of man. Blood curdling from lungs, limbs severed from...

A Ticking Clock In War Three minutes and twenty seconds, the clock is ticking! Survival is at the fore front his mind, his veins, rushing rivers of blood. His eyes constrict to the goal at hand. Gun fire resonates through the village like wild thunder; as it rains down on the now burning and motionless convoy. Screams and explosions take flight to the dusted sky. The moon beams with a crimson radiance. Hill stops stand silhouetted in the foreground. Nothing is completely coherent in the moment. His thoughts collide in a wild fight to keep himself alive, he has only himself. Communications have ceased do to debris from an explosion hitting his radio. His chest on a constant rate to feed his lungs air. His bodied pulsating to the rhythm of his adrenaline charged heart. Bullets whisk by; only a few feet above his head. He watches the rounds buzz past him as they pop with an all too familiar snap. Watching, he takes a chance to see what threat he is against. Stuck behind a s...

The Violation of Innocence  She is held in a limbo, a purgatory, a Ferris wheel she is forbidden to exit. A repeating scenario ensnares her eyes with shadowed glimpse of a figured torn from its body. A rope dangles in the flashing of a storm. Her window clatters against the violence of the wind. Her throat tense in fear, her eyes wide in panic. She feels her limbs become dull, as if her bones are becoming brittle to the taxing taxation of uprooted love. Her heart, taken from the soil of her once opulent soul. She feels herself drift like a ghost to the forgotten pages of dying memories. Her hands hold to nothing as she stares with gorged eyes of sorrow. Pale is the moon, as it waltz with the cavernous clouds of thunder.  And as she pours herself to the withered aches of her heart. She scrapes her thoughts from the addictive pleasures of what will be seized. As she is tortured in thought of what she restrained from  experiencing. She writes herself upon ...

Escape The Masses  Escape the masses, reverberate your soul. Impale the sheep that you once were, hang its head from the spear of your triumph. Show the world you no longer bear the armor of wool. But now, bear the teeth of a wolf, the heart of a lion, and the fortitude of a hero. No more idle breaths, you now raise yourself from the depths of your living grave. No longer will you walk with your head turned to the ground. You now walk freely from the herd, your shadow no longer haunts. You have sheered the weakness from you and now carry courage. Be valiant  in your efforts. Be not a berserker in your actions, frothing at the mouth with rash thought. But be as if a Valkyrie, wings spread, blade drawn, and heart pure in the battle to protect. To fight that which wishes to bring harm. Do not hush the beating of your heart, let it reign on your lands like the call of the horn. Bury the old and grow the new. Find yourself cleansed of the bitterness that tainted your...

Find more stories like this in, A Man's Traveled Heart tHe iLL WiLL oF SeLF  Brush upon a canvass, creating a brake-less variety of colors. Coating the moments, one feels branchless in the world. Trying to find where to plant thoughts like seeds and become the brightness one needs so gravely.  But what business is left to do when one feels of a walking carcass?  Covering all basis of the damned, feeling breathless, almost brainless in the wandering of life. Ceaseless does one feel when colors do not blend. When thoughts become an eager chorus of claim-less doubts. Skirting the very breath of death, raising a blade in wishing for clearness. But only to feel as if one’s heart has become daftness to even the oldest closeness.  Disconnected in self, darkness becomes so dauntless one feels nameless in self. Puttering on the edges of thoughtless swamps. Drowning in pitiful dimness of the rash and quivering in the coldness of regret. Running from the...

We Have Forgotten Our Warriors  No longer do we praise the warrior like that in the days of the knight. No longer do we sit by our bedside and pray for the warrior as he dawns his armor for war. No longer do we weep in the destruction of man and the blood that spills upon sands.  Too many preach of the warrior as if their existence is futile in the eyes of change. That bringing weapon against evil is no way to live. But they do not see the tyranny of evil, the cumbersome loses and poison they bring.  Too many have not felt the heat of war, the anger of evil.  Too many have not seen the vision of hell upon earth. The screaming, the dying, the forgotten. The innocent spent as mere pawns to keep a regime thriving like jungles beneath rain.  Too many have not seen the tears of families, wives, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, upon the death their warrior.  Few have felt the burden of the constant eye to stay alive. To wonder if th...

What is left of a warrior after war, when all the the dust has settled and the bodies have been collected? A desolate landscape awaits most. Some find nothing beyond the blade, beyond the screams of battle. Some are torn between now and then, like the tortures of lost love. Falling ill to shadows and the coldness of the mind. Fort Warden, WA Shallow motions of empty thought carry along side many. Searching for meaning beyond the whims of instinct. Beyond the ideal skill of a predator. Too many become lost with no hope but the kiss of death. Whispering to the hateful wishes of demons. As they lie with terrible eyes, leading the lost to the end of a rope or the piercing of flesh. There is no safe passage for a warrior after war. Hell they have crossed and hell they must traverse. Numbness masks their souls as they find their way. Will they survive is all left to the warrior. And survival is what they know, but many know not the horrors that await them alone.  Many do not lo...