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The yawning plains of the honey haze Serengeti poured with stampedes of wild beasts. Watching, my heart raced as I peered from the neck of a Baobab Tree.

Kneeling, I could feel the rumblings of the stunning beasts. Their horns darting toward pools of water. But among these rolling beasts of horned muscle. Lay something unexpected, something I never thought I’d be witness to.

And as I knelt, crouched in swaying brush, I held my finger in a gentle hover, just above my camera’s shutter release. My eyes dilated to such a wild sight. A gripping exposure of earth.

A ferocious coming of animals. I’ll never forget, just before the blood was spilled upon the dusty plains. The sky filled with a glaze of tangerine as pillows of soft white sailed toward northern heights. …


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_ A Nameless Wife _

I kept her in my pocket,
Closest to the heart
A place of warmth and memory.

I kept her safe,
Kept her from the rages of war
The destruction of life,
I kept her from the flying rounds of our enemies

The assaults of our nemesis
And the grip of doubt,
I kept her from it all
As I stared upon her as the sky lit in flashes,

I stared upon her beneath burning candles,
I looked upon her beneath the storms
Of these foreign lands,
These torn landscapes of massacre
As I wept upon the bodies of my brethren. …


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_ It is Up to You _

I can say nothing to change what is
Or what has been
Or ever shall be.

But I can try,
I can try to turn your grey to a blossom
Of flowers

A bouquet of bloomed beauty
Colors to expand from the dreary
Shed the heart from darkness.

I can do nothing for you,
But to say this.

The dismal trials of now
Where heads hang low
And the heart weigh heavy,

Are not forever,
The shadows may linger
Stretch from hill to hill,

But they end,
As does any season
But your feet must…


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The moon is falling behind and the sun is catching up. Madeline and me have taken our sails to the port of Surie, a place where the surroundings are peaceful. Where every one you pass smiles with elation of the mere ability to breathe.

At least, that is what we are told. We had received a pamphlet in the mail about three months ago. Describing Surie and displaying beautiful pictures of golden sunsets, birds soaring against glittering waters while people hold drinks with faces of laughter and joy.

Everything about it looked spectacular. And our hearts needed an escape. A place to revitalize ourselves. …


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_ The Red Door _

The red door sits firmly pressed,
Its crimson body flush against pale arms
As its frame etches out its wide berth,

Its silence coats the early morning
With a sound of silent stories,
Its mouth once a birthing place of pages

Footsteps,
Talks,
And wanderers of the former.

It is subtle in its existence
But warm in hollow presentation.
As its abandonment

Of use leaves it sterile,
Alone,
Crisp against the yellow

The angled walls of its master,
But though
Constricted to the tombs of pale arms

And yellow grasp,
It brings vision
To the changing path. …


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Painting by Jim Carrey https://twitter.com/JimCarrey/status/1129796511611490304?s=19

_ How Far Must We Fall _

Have we stooped so low,
As to wish death upon those
Whom think differently,
To praise the murder of another
By the disdain of others,
What are we to become
If we shall brush our arts to paint death.

To call upon the evisceration of another
In sake of contempt of their beliefs,
What twisted ideas have we whittled
From the bones of our freedom,
Our spoils I fear have left us blind. …


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_ Until It's Too Late _

We never know the harvests true beauty,
Till we go hungry,

We never know preparations needed,
Till we are tested,
Left to the whims of life.

We are a collection of our decisions
Our desires set in the mass of our priorities.

A vessel carried through the dismal
In search of the beautiful,

Often lacking congruency of thought
A crowded hull of animosity

Built on linear scales of neuroticism
A cynical undertake of breath.

We never know our hearts,
Till they break.

We never know anything,
Until it is too late.
--
Micah Biffle


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The war crept to a silence among the fields. But the scars of war remained stained upon the lands. Craters, markings upon tree’s, the screams of soldiers echo for eternity.

And though the war has ceased. Coming to spiritual creep, it stills plays out in his head.

Bartholomew, still hears the gun fire. The horrific shrieks of agony as his own men burned before me. He still hears his enemy calling out for help as he plunged his blade into his enemies chest.

The force it took to pierce his enemy bones still resonates in his nerves. The warmth of his enemies blood seeping down his hands still trickles upon his flesh. …


_ Just out of Reach _

I want the light,
Touch the sunlight bright
But it seems so distant
So far fetched to catch
To hold upon my chest,
To feel it's warmth upon soul
Grab hold,
Be bold, I wish.

But my bones feel broke,
Choked by miserable regrets
Left dead for the vultures beak
Their need to feast
Taking the dead,
The damned that fall to that which we all dread,
Terrible dreams of stretched death
Losing breath,

The shadows grow abreast
A nest,
Upon the lips
Words drip with putrid blood
Blackened,
Stained of miseries name
A romance of masquerade pain
The romantic take of candle lit restrain
Madness of internal…


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Emera, with her hands upon her face. “What are we to do?…what did we do?!”

Looking to Emera, I approach her with my hands out. My arms trembling, my heart racing and the still damp blood upon my hands. “It’s not your fault nor mine, he was going to kill us. We had no choice.”

Emera, beginning to weep, she lowers her hands. As she does, the moon filters through the clouding night. It lands upon her face like a soft touch of an angel. Her tears glisten as they sail down her cheeks, “But…but I still loved him. …

About

Micah Biffle

Just a man that was once lost in the pursuit of understanding himself. I write short stories, poems, and motivational pieces. (Instagram @poemjunkybiffle)

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