On the verge of new life,
A grand party is thrown
Substance is the atmosphere
No definition of strife
The zone is a chaotic zone
For two hours I knew no fear
But I'm not the one to steer
When an undercover cop lurks near.
I had several fluent moves
Couple stolen bases but no home runs
Planted a seed or five
Busted some rhythmatic grooves
And made an arc aimed at the moon's sons
Look to the past, alive with jive
Now my seeds are literally alive
I really hope my writing thrives
A red and blue seizure
And shouts make the games freeze
My feet are set to motion
To a car or the woods for leisure
I'd choose the woods with ease
Yet I'd dream of reaching the ocean
So I still got home. What devotion!
Haven't passed out yet but getting the notion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.