The gentle brush of leaves awakens me
Startles me out of my amber vision
A recurring dream
Hooded men with rusty swords
Wrapped to the knees in crepidas
Tramp solidly over The Colosseum floor
Thickly marching -click click click click-
Oven timers set to broil
Surrounded by a pride of green faced lions
Proud men and women and children
Gleaming with a brilliant, crisp air
The kind of air that comes from victory
Or the expectation of it
We stand in the center
Debris rains down around our feet
The horde growing uneasy
Licking their chops ready to grimly applaud
And point collective thumbs down
Our flesh vibrates with the rumbling ground
We wait
We breathe
Perhaps for the last time
The emperor waves his yellow hands
There is an ear-splitting silence
The hooded men like canyon walls lean forward
Click
We do not flinch
Click
We do not flinch
Click
We do not flinch
We raise our steadied weapons
And begin to paint
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
