(Cr: City of Hot Springs)
An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.
This is the moment
of bountiful anticipation,
that split-second event,
of a momentous decision.
Standing there, bat in hand,
expecting the ball to twirl in reach,
there I stand, in longful demand
of the glory that suceeds the contact pitch.
This split-second holds hope eternal
in a game full of stats and averages.
In this split-second, I can be lethal
and score some serious carnage.
This is the hope within the moment
that fosters my slow pitch ambitions.
Within a split-second, I either make a dent
or simply scratch the surface of expectation.