There is blood in a red sunset, black smoke on the horizon death in the penciled trees They are fuel for the coming fire, matchsticks waiting for a spark The world burns and we are the wick, kindling for the flame, grey lead for the melting Save the pretty poetry and soft pastels for Spring which won't come until the deadwood has turned to ashes
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
Paul;-)
How sadly true, Linda, and quite a poem.
Love Tinka
Well done. Love the imagery. Yes, "we are the wick."
Peace,
Carolyn
Felix
Take care,
Sherry
oh how true, good write
Mister