Stammering quarrel
with classical fluidity,
fails to measure the uncertainty.
I was finding my rocks,
that chunk of certainty
in midstream,
when you were not sailing with me.
The wait,
stirs high the separated pain.
Boat capsizes on high sea,
churning the eyes.
Suspense was killing
behind the veil.
Half-belief
half-truth
sustained the spirit, kept
possibility at bay.
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
This book represents a thirty-day period of my poetry journal. Each poem addresses
the dominant thoughts occupying my mind during the early morning hours of a given
day.
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