1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 In the clasp formed by his fingers,
the grasped gasp taken,
before the bullet penetrates the skull,
of the 6 goal thriller,
of the time he celebrated their last minute victory,
of the moment his son was born,
of when his son first saw it the way he did,
of the smiles of his friends faces,
upon the field they worshipped,
upon the bed made for him,
in a shallow grave,
next to his only son,
now sleeping in his own red petals,
of these executions,
will disapear with him,
being the last of them all,
lying in bloody pieces,
across a football field,
in some far away land,
where football is but a metaphor,
for life and death.



Hard hitting as it is…it exists and it has happened.

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/end-2/