Bryan Deakin

Scottish Poet / Blogger / Community Activist

Emperors Wall

He sits in a place of beauty,
Of a wall named after an Emperor,
Pondering on the past,
Thinking of life,
Wishing faults were never made,
He knows that is whom he is,
But guilt eats him inside.

Legs crossed, back straight,
As he sits at the roman Emperor,
He envisions the past when,
The invading army,
Would march over the not so bonny bridge,
He sees the memories of history,
Shadow in time,
Walk among the trees as if,
they were still alive.

He can smell the manure from local field,
He hears tourists on the two met rivers,
Slight force on his cheeks,,
Rustle in his hair,
Black leather he wears,
Sits with a weight on the grass.

Silver object against his skin,
Vertical slash up his arm,
The Blood flows into freedom
As he takes the last breathe.
The last gasp.

He fades,
Eyes close,
He dies,
His soul is free.

© 2005 – 2016

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