Member-only story
His heart is on the grass
Passing through the floodlights
Waiting for the crowd
To avoid another beat.
His eleven chosen hearts
Tackled from the lions
Blood on their sleeves
Hopes in their veins
The rhythm of his system
Managing the tempo,
Flowing out from the back
Circulating to the wings.
A charge jolts him awake -
To see the pitch pulsating.
Pump. Pump. Pump into the box.
But the goal is bloody-minded.
One last heart attack.
A cold-blooded finish.
Heart caught in his mouth.
Stopped dead with a whistle.
Frost starts a lonely cooldown
and the stars take a breather.
His heart takes a well-earned rest
Until he’s on the grass again.
