The fire howling in the veins ,
The Neverending zest to rule the domains ,
Even though it rains
Like how the tropical depression ,
The so - called submerged dreams of procession ;
It drones an endless dirge
and proffers toxins ,
The creepin' reverie incase they converge ;
The mirage of a world of no solitude ,
no frailing peices even through the body ,
no ties weighting them back ;
In it's justice ,
gathering power prevails continuously ,
In trips of gallops of wishful tremors ,
looking out into future's happenings ;
There is something more than a gold medal on your neck ,
Somehing that none could ever wreck ,
This whole meaningful experience which made you complete ,
I know , deep down , within your heart ,
You'll always be proud to grow up to be an ATHELETE.
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The Neverending Zest To Play
PoetryIn the rhythm of athletic grace, where muscles dance with purpose and hearts beat in sync with ambition, lies the poetic saga of sports . Each movement, a brushstroke on the canvas of competition, paints tales of resilience, teamwork, and unyielding...
