Micah Park Biffle

A Weary Traveler and their Words    Where to travel with this weary heart? I take up my art of broken dreams the seamless lines of darkness crowding my vision into blankness. A shroud of shadows singing so proud the hallows of the empty hollow halls. The void of my heart, tearing the delicate parts.  Where to take this lonely heart? The mountains are cold, the valleys are low and my heart is even deeper. Sinking further into the distance, a star fading to existence as wolves prowl between the howls of the wind. A sin I live in, a torment of grief, of cascading pleads.  Hands bleed as a I hold this ax, cutting down trees. Making a home that shall fit me. But alone it is difficult and in time gives no residual. And alone these eyes see two perspectives. Two objectives of my miserable perception.  Joyful and dark, each with their own end, their own start. A stark terror of fear, rejection of joy, of a happy poise. As whispers of hopeful ploys, ladled i...

The Bone Girl     I hear whispers in the night as I lay my head to rest. I assure you I am not ill, I am not mad in the mind or body. Quiet whispers I tell you, tickle gently upon the canals of my ears before each rest at midnight. Like wisps of wind through an empty hall.   But oddly, I fear them not but I am quite gripped in confusion. As if lost in a room of mirrors, I am finding no exit. But I do not allow my lost mind to be wild. I keep my wits about me as I lay myself to rest.       What these whispers say I do not know. They are foreign in tongue, or so I think. I reach out to my doctor, he gives me no advice but to take pills to help me rest. He states, "It may be your lack of well rest. Often the mind will become delusional if not sufficiently resting."   I take his offer of pills and yet, I still hear the somber voices that trickle from the air. I am not mad I tell you, I swear. There is no delusion of m...

A Ranchers Love    Another day at the hands of hard labor. His heart loved, but his body trembling with exhaustion. Age is finding home inside his brittle bones as pride takes his logic. His hands as calloused as his first years. His body, ruffled by the heat of the sun.  His eyes embellished by the circling of darkness, the perching of crows. His hair, as ghostly as the morning mist. His face, worn, with years of dust, dirt, and grim. But his smile still remains, his heart still beats as if sixteen.  Jasper, opening the door to his lodge house that sits dead center upon his land. Steps inside and removes his boots. Holding each in one hand he turns to the opened door and clacks the boots together. Clouds of dust waft from the bottom of his boots. Chunks of mud fall to the heavy vibrations of the repetitive collision.   With the boots cleared, he places them to the left of the door just inside. Jasper turns to the door and shuts it. Turning back to...

The Splitting of Earth The horn of the heavens rang out with a mighty bellow. The earth began to shake, every mouth of fire spewed with rage. The gods stared with bereavement of what must be done. Horror stood with a frothing mouth of carnage. The earth began to split into two, screams of suffering clouded the air. Mountain tops crumbled at the sight of the heavens. Devouring everything in their path; no creature nor village was left in safe passage. The ground began to boil, flesh became victims of shrilling heat. Mothers watched as daughters became ravaged by flames; as deafening screams of torment resounded in the ears of the mothers. Fathers observed with grieving souls as sons were crushed by falling stone. No soul was safe; the heavens rumbled with mighty roars. The sky opened with a blinding light, Angels came rushing from the stars. Gods came charging like eagles as clouds of white stormed the horizon; and as they rushed down to the splitting earth, up came the ...

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...

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...