Afterwards they say in whispers
he’s a loathsome loser’s whinger
probing eyes are pointed fingers
pricking me with sneering slander
canted at my unbelief.
There I was a punter’s shadow
peering through the witness’ window
watching scenes of ritual slaughter
aching in a mortal torpor
seeking succour as thief.
Even though the game had ended
I replayed the vital stanzas
saw the triumphs and the errors
felt the trials discerned the terrors
knew there’d never be relief.
Losing is a trial by moonlight
attenuated in the forthright
claim to victor’s right by birthright
rub the faeces of failed combat
in the face of scalding grief.
© 1 July 2007, I.D. Carswell