The Colosseum.

Glory of the game, so played religiously

with minds of the audience

sitting unperturbed;

Cheering around the masquerades,

the mob grows in the anguish

and relishes on the gore.


Galloping past the victim,

the knight draws the

first blood in open,

as the anguished bites the dust;

The crowd bids a farewell

to the fallen with a roar for some more.


Magic of the red enigma

remains a mystery

and will remain so,

as we stand testimony

to the Colosseum,

as we did thousands of years ago.


The Colosseum has only expanded,

belittling the world around,

in front of the game,

so played religiously;

The Thirst hasn’t quenched

and the nadir hasn’t ceased.


Isn’t there a solution

to this paradox,

where men cheer

at death and

laugh at anguish.


Isn’t there an end

to this,

or we just wait

and wait some more,

till the cannon points at us.


Choice is ours,

end is what we choose,

to live and let live

or to kill and get killed.




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