All systems working at their mazimum,
Rudiments forgotten but yet utilized,
Developed as a finely tuned machine,
Locked inside the vault, the spirit,
Foaming at the bit like a wild steed,
Straining to get outside and dominate,
As the mind speaks in a superior voice.
“The batter is a stepping stone to failure,
A little pond trying to find an ocean,
A poet that can’t find a word,
A bird that can’t build a nest,
A lowly subject beneath my feet,
A little boy looking up at me, his daddy,
His dominator who controls his every thought,
Whose throne is the pitcher’s mound,
Whose mission is to send him to the bottom,
To make him swing and miss at my curve ball,
That speeds toward his head
And breaks over the plate.
Strike one, strike two, strike three.
You’re out, little boy.”