Orange ghosts mark the distances —
not of fear, but of faith.
A foot behind college,
you rise like memory
and let it fly.
No crowd,
just wind and a rim that knows
when a man shoots honest.
Net snaps like a whisper.
Backspin rewinds time.
You walk the arc like a prophet
who never needed scripture,
just that brush,
that measure,
that light.
by Lucent