In the stillness of a stranger’s stance
I’m looking for my expedition’s end,
Dear to me as the deepest love
Is the tempest that takes my trials,
And refurbishes them on my racquet.
‘Tis the wise man who wonders why
Progress slows as endurance grows,
Half-hearted attempts, where corners win,
Angles prevail and twisting mangles fail,
The tournament muscles of youth no more.
The earliest taste of titanium sun
Lives inside blood of they who play,
Trying for the next closest sensation to flying,
Overlapping feet with feet, serving free,
Honoring the fancy and frequent wind.
Ah, the strike of the strap vaguely relieves,
But not for they who peer from back,
Languished are the lasting reflections,
Set inside the infected minds of tennis,
So sad, so fresh with garlanded heights.
(Based on “Tears, Idle Tears” by Alfred Lord Tennyson)
Parting Points: I'm an OSU fan, but the number two coaches' poll ranking is very generous.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment