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.


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