Forlorn,
I sit and mourn
What could have been,
From the boundary, trying not to be seen.
Misanthropic.
A tiny nick
Has snuffed out my life,
Success always resting on the edge of a knife.
Melancholy,
I sit here pondering, sorry.
Should be out there fighting.
Every strike sounding like lighting.
Company,
I rushed too hurriedly,
Spurned our honour
And became connon fodder,
Because I got the plan wrong,
Sung the wrong song,
Overstretched,
Regret etched
Across my face,
Death dressed in lace,
Struggling on a sticky wicket,
I guess that is just cricket.
Sometimes you die before your time and then have to sit with all of the other dead souls. I suppose most people feel like they died before their time...