Fibres of Frustration

Jumbles of names fill the air, screams and calls. Shouts appear this way and that, swings of limbs smash and every body throws themselves here and there, every instrument out of tune. The orchestra falls and crescendos back up all the while the sun's beady eyes are spectating. A critique watching a concert, rays of examination studying every step out of place every wrong note. The coach on the sideline, the conductor with his back facing the crowd. each swing of his stick of instructions show despair...resentment. One comes sliding in and one falls, as one of the instruments drops, smacking to the ground white wisps of disgust cover the suns stare. Suddenly the pristine fabric of the net rolls in embarrassment at the wrong end. The boy with gloved hands falls to the ground, the drums burst. the sun now lowering itself away from the scene a critique leaving the concert. A never ending shriek ended the game. As the echoes of the game are pushed to the back of every bodies heads. The frustration will forever be fused to the jerseys. These are the fibres of frustration.