Paul Willason Poet Free verse

The Colosseum

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 becomes 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 harden.

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