p.s. He’s red
Red ran through his blood,
It could always be seen through his head and his heart,
His language was not written by his hands,
But his feet
Though never loud.
It was ecstasy that was resultant in his feat,
Made the crowd rise like royalty to a prince
He found the holes in needles,
And through that came his niche, his success
Constant performances no less to impress
Astounding while he was there
Then he left as a phantom, no arrogance, simmering with passion, with a sobering smooth humility, exterior of a fighter, interior soft, silk surrounding him when he showed his skill.
The one who at the click of his fingers can do what he will –
A pallet overflowing with paint to create his art;
The success from his mind he conveyed.
He always invariably did pass, such things as arrogance, when he did it was like a sweet kiss to ones feet
For others he opened up emotions that were never there,
All the audience can do is stand and stare,
Gazed with mouths open at this theatrical precision,
He caused reactions more meaningful than nuclear fission.
He forgave only to gain revenge,
He left you mesmerised only to be humble when he left,
He left only to return again,
When he arrived it was expected as his memory will always be engrained like the stain marks on his shorts: the blade stricken grass, grazed by bullets flying from every direction, causing a spectrum of north to south of different emotion.
He made the others pay at his toll,
He left some dead on the ground with no roll, or even with some going over like there won’t be a tomorrow,
He had his adversaries running around in circles, making their boots bare burnt soles,
Just one man, his name can only be Paul Scholes.
He was just shy off a landmark,
That was just the way he always was,
Never wanted more than what he had,
All he had was great, a legacy that will always live on.
Then he was 22,
The years he had lasted till,
The consumed herd all go into their retreat,
Where he rests on his allocated throne, in what has been his home for all this while,
He hangs his artillery for the final time,
99 memories flashed before him,
All that is seen is a silhouette fading in that tunnel,
All we see, a hint of RED in the darkness, like a core of the dying sun
Always burning until that fixture in his life was done.