It’s a bitter kiss of fate,
a low blow once received,
It’s as bitter as a salty sting,
after all that you’ve achieved.
It aches in groans of millions,
but screams inside your own.
You’ve came in second place,
failed to reap what you’ve sown.
Disappointment, that sickening swoop,
of the bird called chance is all too much to take.
And you feel that ever envisioning winning,
was your spirit’s biggest mistake.
The winner may take it all,
but what comfort can the runner up hold?
Forget condolences and pats on the back.
It’s worthless what you’re told.
But for a soul that’s bruised and battered
It’s insides broken and hope debating,
to dust the embers of losing off and
rise again, is a champion simply waiting.
Waiting to fight for that moment,
when the crowds will forget the time,
when losing was ever their name, and
simply listen to their victory chime.
