They proudly stand on the podium,
The whole world worshipping at their feet.
They have been anointed Champions.
The prize is much more than laurel wreaths.
Theirs is money, fame, adulation,
The high of instant recognition.
It's not only their chosen profession
but to all to whom it's religion.
A million flashlights trained on them
In form of million adoring eyes.
All till the next tournament comes,
when they will turn off, all at once.
We want our Gods to have a shelf life.
Worship too, like everything else
is extreme. Short. In tune with the times.
We like to discard and move on.
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