CONFESSION ZERO

The gentle brush of leaves awakens me startles me out of my amber vision a recurring dream, hooded men with rusty swords, wrapped to the knees in crepidas , tramp solidly over The Colosseum floor thickly marching -click click click click- oven timers set to broil. Surrounded by a pride of green faced lions, proud men and women and children, gleaming with a brilliant, crisp air, the kind of air that comes from victory or the expectation of it. We stand in the center, debris rains down around our feet, the horde growing uneasy, licking their chops ready to grimly applaud and point collective thumbs down. Our flesh vibrates with the rumbling ground. We wait, we breathe, perhaps for the last time, the emperor waves his yellow hands. There is an ear-splitting silence. The hooded men like canyon walls lean forward, click. We do not flinch, click. We do not flinch, click. We do not flinch, we raise our steadied weapons and begin to paint. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman