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.