5.13.12 In the Colosseum

His hair hangs loose, his body’s bare.

I wear the battle bloodied uniform of my rank.

Was it not I, my Emperor, who grew up beside you?  Held your hand when the surgeon cut, stood by you to shoulder the scorn of your father the Emperor Past?

Was it not I who led your legions to victory?

Have I betrayed you?  By your orders I stand in this arena to fight a barbarian before thousands of your intoxicated subjects.  Is this how I shall die?  In shame?

All my life I’ve protected you, and you’ve left to make my grave.

In The Colosseum 5.13.2012

He wears the battle bloodied uniform of his rank.

      My hair hangs loose, my body’s bare.

      He stares unflinching. All I see in his eyes are the screams of the deceased, the cries of the maimed. He is responsible. He epitomizes all I abhor.

 Hatred burns in my vision, consuming me like fire.

 He had brought the fire, destroyed all in his path.

 The wind that followed, carried the element, had caressed it. Destruction. There was only death in his wake. He was responsible for all. The charred bodies, the maimed.

 In these final moments, he will pay his dues.