On The Streets of Rome
I am weary of conflict,
arguments battling across
bloodied ground.
The dead
always come back
as ghosts to haunt
the dark arena of sleep.
Life has become defined
by armaments.
I shall find a place
in the lull of an evening
where the wind quietens
into prayers whispered
along leafy avenues
and storms no longer claw
at the stone walls and pillars
of the temple
but become gentle rain
soothing the City
with its long fingers.
There, on the steps,
I shall leave a fragile
offering for you.
If you come, come quickly
for the sky carries
a reddening glow
and the hearts
of many are beginning
to darken with despair.
Chaos is about to enter
the gates of the City.
Meanwhile the mad Emperor
admires his manhood
reflected in a golden urinal.
Note.
Rewrite of previous poem.
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