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Bill Jerome Poem
Dust arises from the ground and swirls about his feet,
the squawk of battle leather echo's as he takes his seat.
"Away" another warrior dragged lifeless from the ground,
He drops his sword and wonders when his time will come around.
The muted cries, the bloodlust crowd forever in his ear,
He knows this song, replayed before, each day, each week, each year.
How can he hope to win again, his will not what it seems,
Freedom long forgotten buried deep within his dreams.
But what is this he sees through eyes half closed by sweat and Sun?
Caesar's guards approaching him, could this mean life is done?
He bravely stands to meet his fate . . . without fear, without debate.
The mob now oddly silent, as if they too were dead,
an eternity it seems it took for him to raise his head.
A golden sword is handed him, a voice says "Here my Son"
You've entertained the crowds enough, your freedom you have won.
And as the crowds rose to their feet, they all began to cheer,
While in the Gladiator's eye...was seen a single tear.
Copyright © Bill Jerome | Year Posted 2021
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