In shadows cast upon the court's dim plight,
Where echoes whisper tales of loss and dread,
A figure stands, adorned in hopes of light,
But dreams dissolve like mist, and hope lies dead.
From hallowed halls where champions once roamed,
A man named Woodson sought to lift the game,
Yet in the crucible of cheers, enthroned,
He found the weight of failure turned to shame.
Each flickered star that promised victory,
Now dims beneath the shadow of despair,
The roster's might, once vibrant history,
Betrayed by fate, a tale too hard to bear.
The clock ticks down, an echo of defeat,
And every missed shot, every sigh, a curse,
Yet still he lingers there, in hope's retreat,
A specter of a dream, now but a verse.
In moonlit gloom, where specters of the past,
Recount the fortunes lost, the dreams that frayed,
Mike Woodson's name, to whispers now is cast,
A cautionary tale where hope once played.