Twine

tenuous thread

stressed to perfect

tensile strength

twine holds yet

durable

ductile

won’t let go

can’t forget

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Basic Burial

The stadium is full, the ball is in the air,

Players, with supporters, in their hordes, from everywhere,

Praying for a portion of the pot, the winners’ cup,

Linesmen, umpire, referee, the stewards, all lined up,

Ready for the toss up, shaking in their boots,

Could get messy, this one, it’s the final, back to roots.

Everybody gathered at the ball game, here we go,

The ref has tossed, the captains called, let’s enjoy the show.

First up Dederiyeh, arranging body parts,

Neo’s here, exposed himself, unusual but a start,

Homo’s on, with figurines, charms and artefacts,

Buried in the back wing, nearly off the charts,

Some are getting organised, let’s all give a cheer,

Salisbury’s started something but wooden seen from here,

Communal is coming, that should save some space,

Quite an international, frenetic at this pace.

Commentating’s difficult, these guys are second rate,

Time for substitutions, we’ll really feel the hate.

Nope, they’re subbing extras, Krishna’s for a kick,

Jain’s appeared, he’s harmless, though, ascetic and cosmic.

There’s struggle now, Kaliyuga’s on, might have sealed his fate,

The ref is writing cuneiform, he needs some record. Wait!

Djoser’s here! He has a plan, a pyramid’s appeared,

It’s quite the play he’s making, but it could end in tears.

There’s texting now, here comes Crete, this is epic, this is deep,

Watch that ball, it’s changing hands, stakes are growing steep.

Abe is on! Now Veda! Wood has turned to stone,

The crowd is growing restless, exodus, some going home,

The whistle’s blown, half-time called, team talk come at last,

They’ll be back, all fired up, coming thick and fast.

Let’s cut to the highlights, this game goes on for years,

Developing complexities, new characters, old fears.

Can’t keep commentating when the kick-off starts once more

Frantic on the football pitch, all wanting bad to score.

Lowlights looming later with the stars now on the ball,

Triumvirate, none triumphant, nil-nil, a no-score draw.

They struggled down the centre, on the sidelines, in the wings,

‘Over here!’ they shouted but the crowd did other things,

Went out for a burger, for a pie, some chicken soup,

Left maniacal to their game, hoping they’d regroup.

Back to basic burials, no winners and no cup,

Just a henge where humans fought. They died. The crowd gave up.

The stadium is empty. The ball has fallen flat.

No one here to commentate. Fanatics saw to that.