Gladiator

When the coliseum crept beneath a bruised‑sienna sky,
the arches breathed a frolic—old stone, new ache—
the gasped breath of a crowd that sang the same bruised lullaby:
“Take heed, dear soul, your fate is within your reach.”

The gladiator slipped out of his latrine‑raft of cold,
clenched his sword in a palm that had weighed the weight of Rome;
with every guard, the metal quivered bold,
a silver memory that sang of victory and of doom.

His glinting cuirass, polished to a shining sheen,
echoed the glow of flares that pierced the fading light;
he stepped, and the floor beneath him seemed to convene,
and the crowd thundered with a steel‑ready fright.

They hissed at the hint of a heart, at the rush of a breath—
They saw it as a spark for their own inner fire,
They feared his bravery, in necroscope depth,
But none could see his faint doubt that lay a part of desire.

He fought with grace, a still hope that bubbled beneath,
that perhaps kindness held a blade still tender,
He steadied his steps when the enemy attacked, and the beat
fell like a drum in a fire‑undergrown ledger.

The final javelin, a martial hymn an ancient decree, rang inorganised tones;
A whisper of a world—shattered, yet refined,
the pieces of fate formed strange circles, and with the last brave thwack, he bowed.

He entered the royal gates, his name long, his honour long held,
he faced the future by demolishing the shadows;
The coliseum roared, living testament that the living world, named after old myths, The gladiator, who dared to live, and now has become a legend.