Gladiator

• Michael Zaccardo, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2013

A gladiator he be, standing in the crowd of shadows, his breath emanates
through the torrent of air with rapid haste, the once slave is summoned.
The objective, survival. The Intent, kill. The mute man yonder gazes. Gazes.
Then groans-grrr. The opponent hurriedly files his charge.
A quarterstaff is thrown like a rock. Careless. Then the man possessed, hungry,
draws his dagger, gashes the prey deeply, and laughs.
The so very fickle crowd chants, chants, as the soon to be dead lay still,
like a living corpse inanimate, lifeless. The gladiator suddenly begins to move,
as though the lord has embedded life upon him. Silence hits the arena,
with solemn mood. The gladiator he be, god like, rises above the sand to his feet.
Shocked, adrenaline driven by the resurrection, the naive being, charges once more.
With nothing in his hand but a polearm, he thrusts his weapon forth sturdily.
Trembling like a twig now the foe begins to fear the sand dune beast,
for he is deficient of red velvet that flows like silk from his core. Cold blooded he cries,
then falls like a bag of fool’s gold. Standing barely, arms spread like wings the victor idles.
The fickle guests chant again, and again like unison birds.
The legend, weak at the knees plummets to his death. The crowd is now silenced.
A gladiator he be, laying in the crowd of shadows.