sleepless Posted February 15, 2005 Report Posted February 15, 2005 Words fail, knees knock, Shoulders sag as I take stock. Storm dies, shouting breaks, Fingers start the nervous shakes, Swallow once, sick feeling still, Lake of despair begins to fill. Panting sight, un-stifled moan, Feet and legs now made of stone. Breathing rushed, cold teeth bare, Misery’s grin returns the stare. Heartbeat racing, eyes are bright, Tears will drown this lonely night! Tragic at start, tragic to end, Another wound that will not mend. Standing silent, sobs begin, Why don’t we ever seem to win? Oh! What drama! Oh! what pain! We’ve gone and lost to France again! (for the England rugby team and all who sail her, with regard to another dismal weekend)
cryptomancer Posted February 15, 2005 Report Posted February 15, 2005 the raven lands in the middle of the room, his black plumage gleeming in the sof light. "if it is any concelation, you guys won when it mattered, and as a result do hold a certain trophy, untill the next world cup that is." the raven grins in the interestingly scary grin of something with no lips or teeth, and waves a small flag, black, emblasoned with a silver fern. I love the poem, and i would not worry too much, unless they lose to the welsh, then panic.
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