Ghosts of the Colloseum

I stand in the ruined heart of Rome. Looking up at what used to be a floor. I close my eyes and experience, I feel the presence of the spirits who died here. And listen to the sound of their final breaths, The symphony of their anguish and regret. I hear the clashes of metal on metal, And see the sparks reflecting off the gladiators sweat. I see the sand and weapons dyed red. Hearing the crowd stamping and trumpeting like elephants. Screaming for this small sand colored world, To be stained crimson. The gladiators struggle whipping the crowd in a frenzy Before one falls, slipping in crimson, a blade poised at his heart. The crowd freezes as the emperor raises his hand. Turning his thumb down, signaling the blade, To pierce the warrior's heart. Shaking me from my reverie. I turned and left the heart of Rome, The field of crimson. The Colosseum.