Wash Out
Stumbling in the trophy room,
Frozen faces, free of gloom,
Forever Hang, but what's their doom?
Thoughts of loss, betrothed to loom.
He dries his eyes and lips on sleeve,
Then washes down his last reprieve.
Ever grateful for the chance,
To get a final moment's glance.
Copyright © Bo Vigoren | Year Posted 2016
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