Tense atmospheres shroud the hungry ring,
ex-freemen, soldiers and kings.
Parallel warriors of different kin,
they question the true defenitions of sin.
Serve the people, serve the crowd,
a hasty bow by dust clouds.
They spill their lives into the golden sands,
grasping on to meagre lives with slipping hands.
The clash of sleel and the clang of iron,
the roaring shouts of a martyred lion.
Gladiators, forced and trained,
with every death their hope is drained.
A husband, father or son,
who cares? They're now gone.
A thumb is raised to fall,
followed by the hush of an agreeing call.
Today is a red day,
let us watch as the warmth of life seeps away.
Theirs freedom lies around the bend,
gladiators are slaves until the end.
By usky95 & Ibby
