Negative spheres in a fast flowing stream,
Blood for the complex, in process for a living dream,
Attracted to the positive always, with fresh zeal,
In a circuit turned, with time's current, as a burning wheel.
I can flash from the clouds to the earthly ground in seconds,
My generation, and self-sustenance, by human minds eventually reckoned.
An orange coat I have, though of fire, I cannot shed,
I can be encountered mostly at night, trading security for a bed,
A frightful weave through the dark streets, complex gardens,
Though scared most of the time, protected out of mind by Earth's warden.
A rarity in the day, though not uncommon to be seen,
My trail sometimes scented, betraying my motions, where I have been.
The engine of my being, muscled in its pattern,
Centre of all the rest, as the sphere to the icy rings of Saturn,
I need the fluid to work, the very essence of the motion,
Colour red mingled with its special ingredients, a certain kind of poti