Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant

A fistful of trust issues
and brain stained
purple by midnight blooms
makes for an interesting partner
in the coliseum.

How does trident and net
fare against the gladius?
Shall we see
after Praeco departs?
When Trumpeter horn announces
impending doom or victory?
While being reborn 
veiled in vernix caseosa,
dripping amniotic fluid 
before a raving mad crowd?

Demand for blood geysers
drowns all reason. 
Instinct, adrenaline, fear
fuels our choreography.
We are dancing the dance
for Lady Death
yet,
hesitating 
attempting to avoid
the finality of her grasp.

She erases lines drawn in sand
as if to say,
“Hey you,
look to me
one last time and 
let us entertain them.”