Poetry: The Book Stuck In My Imagination

In my head lies a picture
Of once a beautiful city.
Tales of you can’t be told with no misty eyes.
Raging with melting fire
Taking angry gulps with fierce passion.
City of the dead
Beneath the gates of hell
House of great Lords,
Owners of mighty gladiators.
I would say a mad man dreamt of it
But its living sculptures a testament
That horror has always been with a man,
darkness crawled into its blackness
But love still found light to shine
Between a boy and a man.
Did they not see the smoking mountains
Consume parts of the lowly valley?
Or did they at a high cost purchase ignorance
With which they built their fools arena?
Why oh people of Pompei?
Did you ignore the groaning of the mountains?
Ignoring the boy and the mane.
I’ve tried to imagine a different ending
But your city always ended up scorched
Perhaps no one can escape death;
Everyone’s final destination.
You who defeated the keltic rebellion
But there was no one to cheer
Not even the boy or his mare
When the earth tore and swallowed
As your rivers overflowed
Flooding your city.
Enemies turn friends to conspire your doom.
Mount Vesuvius was thy judgement
I watched it with multiple convulsions
Innocent children caught in the cross fire
Alex was only a boy
Hands like a little cherub
Captain was his favorite toy,
They were to compete in the arena games
On that faithful day, when hell breathed smoke
They galloped for the city ports
Alex tried to save captain
But his luck was not certain
It’s been centuries now
Nothing but sculptures on a wall of ruins.
And I will title this gory,
The boy who loved his mare.

Vera