I was startled by the flashing lights
that bounced to the beat on that cold night
their flickering, fidgeting rays
emitting the rainbow pass the thoughts in my psyche.
The dance floor mirrored the lights
lingering bodies filling the floor with
passionate hips, swaying on and off the beat
grinding bodies moving pass my lips.
I ventured into the abyss
a red room run down with the promise of passion
fire formed, in the loins of a people inhabiting the spectrum
my body caught the flame, and moved to the shouting rays.
Freedom never seemed to be freer,
yet my freedom wasn’t free
the hips and lips could urge the most pent up soul
their call to freedom was an omen to me.
Flashing lights are the safest place to be
the dance floor, an amalgamation of the spectrum,
the rays shoot pass the face to reveal what’s true,
the movement of bodies make freedom seem new.
The dance floor, a psychic made of wood
interpreting the serendipitous secrets its shown
the flashing lights illuminating the surreptitiousness serenading
in the twist of an offbeat hip.
You could swing for hours upon hours,
watching the prophetic wood and its spinning lights
crashing into the depths of your authenticity
making you believe that freedom is truly free.
Flashing lights and a sticky, sweaty dance floor taught this to me
the contents of their home, moving towards equanimity.
One day flashing lights and a dance floor will call me,
awaiting my response to live completely free,
awaiting my acceptance of authenticity.