The day slogs past,
I endlessly broadcast,
The hopeless look,
Of a beaten rook.

I say to myself I'm hopeful,
But really, I feel awful.
It's just so much to do,
So difficult to come true.

I hang on to sanity by a thread
As thin as that of a spiderweb,
It's all I've got, a rotten hope,
That, if failed, how could I cope?

So, within the next few days,
I can only sit and pray
That somehow my message
Has gotten through to heaven past the filtrage.