A memory reveals itself,
And once again,
The golden fragile waxy disk,
Spins slowly on, through the air,
Matched against the flawless cerulean blue,
Before slowly turning, glinting golden in the sun,
Dipping ever downwards,
into the Lush thick green of soft bracken.
This memory serves only to evoke others,
Walks in the park, evenings in the dark,
Laughing, Playing, Dancing, Swaying,
Moving forwards without restraint.
The Frisbee, like us,
Is remembered at its best, as a device of joy,
As we spin slowly through time, turning,
Only to descend into nothingness.
But the remembered Frisbee, unlike us,
Does not Biodegrade. No.
It goes on,
Repeating its message,
Generation after generation.
The golden disk of joy.
Adam Stuart Pick 2007
And once again,
The golden fragile waxy disk,
Spins slowly on, through the air,
Matched against the flawless cerulean blue,
Before slowly turning, glinting golden in the sun,
Dipping ever downwards,
into the Lush thick green of soft bracken.
This memory serves only to evoke others,
Walks in the park, evenings in the dark,
Laughing, Playing, Dancing, Swaying,
Moving forwards without restraint.
The Frisbee, like us,
Is remembered at its best, as a device of joy,
As we spin slowly through time, turning,
Only to descend into nothingness.
But the remembered Frisbee, unlike us,
Does not Biodegrade. No.
It goes on,
Repeating its message,
Generation after generation.
The golden disk of joy.
Adam Stuart Pick 2007
