A leaf of golden fortune slips dejectedly from his crown,
And it shatters as it meets the marble floors of his palace.
A single tear falls from his oceanic eyes as he stares at the fractured gilt,
Allowing bruised fingers to brush away the shards from his feet.
Blood of his uncle’s death stains the silk of his gown,
Belated sorrow choking him as he held back an agonised cry.
Begging for the day the last gold-plated petal falls from his aching head,
Begging for the day his freedom is once again granted.
Crucified at the feet of emperors before him,
Caligula washes the sin of greed from the trembling hands he has done such wrong with.
Crying out for the warmth of his poor mother’s embrace and comfort,
Caligula with white knuckles takes his dagger purely to feel the presence of something.
Dangerously close is the blade to the emperor’s rapidly rising chest,
Digging painfully into the porcelain skin as it threatens to pierce the heart of Rome’s leader.
Daring himself to end it all with a single thrust of the silver knife,
Daring all of Rome to see the iron blood leak from the wound of their most beloved.
Even the most seemingly perfect men hide their guilt from humanity,
Eating them alive from the inside out as they swim in their personal lake of grief.
Every last inch of the young leader’s body felt numb at the touch of his maiden’s jewelled fingers,
Each and every day feeling as if it drew longer and longer in spite of his crimes.
Fighting the urge to drive his spear into his beating and broken heart,
Finding the peace in himself as he throws it to the marble floors of his dwelling.
Fimble fingers loosening the rope that ties his robe to his fragile waist,
Fretting the sight of the bleeding wound he had put upon himself.
Gilded leaves recess from the branches of the boy’s royalty,
Guided by the way of which his ancestors had ruled his land before him.
Golden waves of hair sweep idly before his tearful yet anger-ridden eyes,
Giving up all hope and love for the people whom of which love him the dearest.
High in the dark bell tower lays the body of emperor’s past,
Heirs of kings yet to come kneeling before their royal ancestors with pleading eyes and sinful screams.
Hear the cries of saddened mothers as her child sinks into the sin of greed and lust,
Heaven praised as angels cascade with silver tears leaking from the innocence of their perception.
In a state of what seemed to be pure torment and sickness,
I heard the cries of emperor Caligula calling out for God’s forgiveness on his hands and knees.
Is it such a strange thing to imagine that I felt a sense of empathy for the king?
Is it so hard to believe that he had a fragment of purity in his corrupt heart?
Jaded Caligula was the from the lack of liveliness in the halls of his humble abode,
Just a boy he was when the golden crown was placed idly upon his head with not one ounce of hesitation.
Jubilant he had felt when his people kneeled before him and praised his name,
Justifying for him the transgression of such acts he had partaken in.
Killing himself no longer felt as if it were an option,
Kaleidoscopes of sin canvasing his eyes in razor-sharp blindfolds piercing porcelain skin.
‘Kings don’t cry’ is what the emperor told himself as his fingers gripped knots of golden hair,
Knuckles white with agony as Rome’s leader begged his lord for ‘one last chance’.
‘Loneliness’ was a bitter word as it fell from Caligula’s bleeding tongue,
‘Love’ felt as if it dug a wound into the boy’s throat as soon as it left his bruised and beaten lips.
Let me into your melancholy heart of silver and gold will you please?
Lakes of anguish drowning you in its waves of torture and solitude.
Mosaics built in the shape of his all-seeing eyes cover the walls like a museum,
Museums built purely for his personal pleasure filled with depictions of the women he believed he had loved.
Maidens he had promised the world and brides he had threatened to poison if they didn’t perform his bidding,
Melting the paint of the canvases with the flame of his aching heart.
Not once did I consider that Caligula may have felt guilt for his acts of misdeed,
Nor did I believe that the emperor was ever truly happy.
Newborns blessed with a kiss upon their fragile heads from the king himself,
Never being able to comprehend why their families worshipped such a cruel man.
‘O hear my modest prayer and allow my king to serve for an eternity’ devotees would cry,
Only for their pleas to be drowned out by the choked sobs from the throats of Caligula’s victims.
‘O Gods, hear me now’ the worshippers cry at the feet of their emperor,
Of course the Gods do not always answer your prayers.
Processes of elimination as emperor after emperor’s hearts are pierced by the spear of betrayal,
Pleading eyes of Rome’s third emperor as he begs on his bleeding knees.
‘Please’ escapes from his quivering lips as tears of anguish flood from his eyes as if they were rivers,
Piling up body upon body of the ones of whom he has betrayed.
Queens shield their eyes from the adornment of blood at their feet,
Quickly they run to their kings to shield them from the torment.
Quietly children weep as their knights are killed before them,
Quaintly their blood leaks through the centuries old cracks in the streets.
Relishing in the feeling of fame, the emperor lays back idly on his throne of gold,
Reality seems shifted as the light from the sun reflects colours from the stained glass windows onto his skin.
Riskily his fingers run over the blade of his spear,
Reaching the sharp tip he pricks himself and bleeds.
Still the scent of his past lover’s lavender perfume lingers in the air,
Shifting between the feeling of love and the feeling of hatred.
Silently sitting on his golden throne,
Silently sitting and waiting for someone to save him from his nightmare in disguise.
Timidly he reaches blood-stained fingers out for his silver dagger,
Tiredly whispering to himself that the feeling of a knife in his chest would ache less than heartbreak.
To the blind eye the young Caligula seemed to have it all,
To himself he had nothing.
Underneath the moon on a dark August’s night,
Underlying in the midnight air you can see the king’s spirit of stars in the ink-like sky.
Unsure of the meaning behind the fallen emperor’s bewitching night sky visitation you may think to yourself;
Until when will the poor young Caligula be trapped in his inky prison?
Viciously the young ruler tears at the silk gowns his admirers have draped him in,
Violently he rips them apart from thread to thread.
Violet shreds of cotton flow down the marble steps of his palace like rivers of water,
Valiantly he throws away the material as he cries out in agony to the gods above him.
Waking in fright each morning with a heart racing faster than the blink of an eye,
Weeping like a child in the embrace of a quilt once owned by his mother.
Washing away the blood of his enemies in the pools of youth surrounding his castle,
Wailing in horror at his unforgivable crimes.
Xanthic strands of hair sweep before his piercing eyes,
Xenas dancing erotically on torn silk sheets for the emperor’s now unexistant pleasure.
Xesturgy ceramics line the walls of his marble chamber,
Xenodochy now ruled sinful across Rome by the demand of emperor Caligula.
Zombie-like the king now lays in a forced slumber,
Zany he acts now around the ones he would have once called his friends.
Zen no longer a feeling the emperor can find himself acquainted with,
Zestless the almighty king once was before he bleeds onto the white marble of his palace.
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
romaincrisis
