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Poem

Amid the savage screams 
  and blood-curdling shrieks
    of the blood-thirsty mob, 
      the emperor rises in murk
        and fug like a foul mood, 
          glares and gazes down
            the bloodied arena below;

there stands swaying, solitary, 
  a weary, wounded gladiator
    in a frozen poise of striking 
      with his bloody, broken sword
        the vanquished at his feet 
          as the crowd roars louder,
            more hysterical and maniacal,

clamoring for  that sign 
  from the bejeweled hand:
    thumb up means spare him, 
      thumb down means kill;
        although he always can, 
          he won't let them down
            for he, too, shares their joy;

drunk with grandeur, 
  he dispenses life or death,
    decides who lives or dies, 
      who should be in or out,
        who should be up or down, 
          ah, prepositional aesthetics,
            infantile sense of omnipotence!

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