From Martyr to Gladiator

A sun-baked statue, in the crowd's dull murmur
Bathes in the gaze of an unrestrained fervor.
The glint of my sharpened blade cuts just as deep
As the eyes of the lion pierce my will to resist.

Prayers alone once gave me the strength to leap
Providing a mantel on which courage to keep.
In that giddy state I’d give his mouth my wrists
And fall to my knees to await pity and capture.

Yet the spit from the mass would only persist
A frothing and oily anger, screamed and hissed.
Still slick with naiveté, I’d only stare and demure
At the shadowy hate - backlit madness - and weep.

The heat of the sun sucked up, one-by-one, my tears
And breathed life into a single flower, sown in fears.
And the petals grew black, grown sour in the heat -
I’ll give spit, sweat but no more my own blood.

At this affront, the crowd stood in their seats,
And cried, showered me in their graces and screamed
With love for me, for my birth from that bud,
For my certain death by teeth, club and spear.

Now that I fight with the beast in the mud,
Not accepting release from his bite in the flood
Of hurled spite and venom, and rotten sneers -
I stand in the sun and welcome my defeat.