My ampitheatre

I've lain against the concrete,

And felt Savannah grass..

I've felt the moist brown dew

Where none but dry dust blew..

I've seen the studs of diamond-lore,

And Ink on a white screen frame..

You'd never know what sex you ooze..

In yon half-closed silent stare..

I grab my mike,

(My pencilbox,so there)

And squint at the dark

Bright lamps..

My audience is naught but

Grey jungles and brown trees,

Bearing the brunt of mankind's

Lost romance,conquest incomplete..

The whisps of cottonwool,they

Call Cirrus(yeah,Minor),

Form rings around me,with

Crests for backrests,and troughs for the weight..

And there comes my smokescreen blue,

Of itself wondrous thin..

I smell the thin sweet odour of blank expectancy,

While my noble crowds,they wait..

And once again I'm lost in the Haze,

With melodies unchained..

My ampitheatre comes to life,

I've taken centre-stage..