The Football's Flight

The December night is rightly chilled,
But we stand outdoors so strong willed.
We stand, two men - age knows nothing -
Under the light of a dying lamp.

This lamp illuminates what we are,
And we are nothing but what the lamp's
Light uncovers from darkness.

You see, to us, a football is almost
A drug in itself.
It flies through the air, and hangs,
So long, in the beauty of perfection,
Perfection induced by what our hands produced,
And time is halted, amazement vaulted
In the lone image of a dim pigskin
Amongst a black abyss,
Floating, spinning, arching,
Ascending and descending in Nature's
Unmatched expertise.

And so much can happen while
That ball is in flight,
A miracle on earth or
Unimaginable fright.

Black gold made green paper, debt repaid,
Worldwide peace, all crime slayed,
Benevolence prevailed, happiness no longer delayed.

Or,

A war is engaged, taxes are raised,
All hopes and dreams instantly decayed,
Freedom turned to slavery like that known by most,
Your best friend in the world just overdosed.

Then the football is plucked by awaiting hands,
Outstretched in expectancy of the ball's
Inflated body.

Did you ever think that your entire world,
Life as you know it,
Everything for which you fought,
Could be erased in the time it takes for a
Football to be thrown and caught?