| You forget; this man once lived, pondered, ran about; more alive than any fact you’ve memorized. His eyes Once flashed. What of it? shrug and hum in the dark slouched, a shapeless form – eight feet away. You can’t say Its name – you hardly know: maybe slink away – your own miniature break from Rome. Alone, And proud, you think of him iron-willed, masculine; arms and thighs bristling, arched and golden. Noble, Look now all bones; you, the abject servant linger on, obsequious; hunched and laden. |
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of this poem are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This poem is copyright (c) 2011 Mark Thomas Prisco. All rights reserved.
The End.