The game

The game.

The game 

In the throes of the stadium’s roar, 

We are the pulse, the pounding core. 

More than the sweat, more than the score, 

In every cheer, our spirits soar. 

Bound by the battle, the glory sought, 

In woven colors, our dreams are caught. 

A tapestry of the fervent, the fiery lot, 

For the love of the game, we give all we’ve got. 

We clash, we chant, in the fierce embrace 

Of a passion that time cannot erase. 

Through victories and heartaches that we face, 

We rise and fall—a united race. 

Beneath the lights, where shadows play, 

Are echoes of footsteps, old and gray, 

Whisper secrets of games of the yesterday, 

Binding us as one in the fray. 

In the hush that falls before the storm, 

In the electric air where rivalries are born, 

We find a unity, uncommon, unsworn, 

In the heart of the game, where we are reborn. 

Under the arena’s unforgiving lights, they stand alone, 

The scarred gladiators of the modern throne; 

We see not flesh, not bone, but stone— 

We demand for the pure spectacle, their swords drawn. 

For us, the gladiators shed their blood, sweat and tears, 

Invisible behind the shields of cheers. 

We see not the weight of their fears and scars, 

Only champions, never peers. 

Driven past the brink of endurance, 

We care not for gladiators’ assurance, 

Only for their unwavering performance, 

In this relentless, cruel, unbothered concurrence. 

Their pain, a quiet, unspoken song, 

As the game demands, strong and long. 

We forget—they are not gods, but belong 

To the same frail humanity, winning or losing. 

The love, the rage, the tears, the score sheets, the cheers, 

Each moment a memory that endears, 

Through the game, we conquer fears, 

Together, always, through the years. 

Here for the game, where passion and humanity intertwine, 

It transcends, it grows, it becomes divine. 

In the game’s grasp, our souls align, 

Echoing the truest human sign. 

So, let the game play, let the wilding come alive, 

In the stands, in the streets, in every defeat, 

Our souls entwined in a rhythmic feat, 

For the game is us and we are it 

And when the whistle goes start and the roar is on, we are complete. 

EzroniX Poetry