PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Look Eastward:  see the first pink streaks of dawn.

Last night, my final buffer, is now gone.

Now comes unpleasant duty I had drawn:

presiding at this morning's execution

of that imprisoned old man, known as Paul.

Nero's assessors call this a solution.

But I do not agree with them at all.

I hear he does not fear the swordsman's stroke.

His courage covers him like a new cloak

purchased against the winter's creeping chill.

He is not bothered by the thought of death

that causes lesser men to lose their breath

in nervous gasps.  Despite the court, I still

believe him innocent, and always will.

Reluctant, in this hardened heart of mine,

I must make my way to the Mamertine

Prison:  no opportunity to stall

remains.  This filthy street leads to the dreaded

death site where no grass grows, outside the wall.

To see this guiltless, kind old man beheaded,

at my command, may be the final straw.

Once, just a young lad, I read Vergil's poems:

I wonder, now what has befallen Rome's

devotion to both justice and compassion:

mercy must be more than mere passing fashion.

Starward

[jlc]