Marc Antony

September 1, 2011
Determination slashes at his composure, hunching his shoulders
the driving wind is nothing to his driving anger
although it bellows at him with each step he takes.
His core has been beaten and with each pull of his muscles,
the bruises taunt him, reminding him of the loss his world feels.
The death, no, the slaughtering of his friend resonates with each beat.
Tha-thump, tha-thump, the pain grows and grows.
Molding, shifting, it shimmers before his eyes, before his soul.
The people cry, “Caesar, Caesar, we love you and shall avenge your death!”
but Antony knows, he feels that no more wrongs can set the path straight.
Nothing can undo the death of Rome’s leader.
And he, a friend to the dead, is left to tremble in the aftermath.

The ground pulses and convulses and then buckles, his legs underneath him.
His full weight is nothing, the task at hand too great for one man to handle.
No matter how strongly his desire to get revenge, any cheers uttered thrice shall drown.
The suffocating tears of the unskilled plebian knock the knees of all advanced plans.
It was done before it began, the Fates have their way.
Futile, with no satiating end in sight, Antony stands and trudges on.
Swallowing the truth, the epiphany that has risen slowly to the task of opening his eyes
trails behind, clinging to his back.
The sweat dampens it and it, full of feeling, is a sloth perched upon weak vengeance.
The steps slow and the dust looms ahead.
Falling, falling, cries for Antony, nothing to cushion his fall.
The one deed to free Rome hinders it and snags two birds with one stone.

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