Gladiator

He stood on a field, strewn in roses
Mingling wiht the blood, spilled fresh
And much of old, the colour bled and dried
Sweat on his brow, the sun on his back
His sword, his only support
Deep he breaths, each as painful as the next
Of wounds on his body: bloody and broken
The cheers of the crowd, fall on deaf ears
For he hears nothing, only blood rushing
In his ears, his ragged breathing
Hard to hold on, Harder to let go
So simple would it be, to lay down and die
The beauty of death, when it smiled on him
For he had only to smile back
The thought of dying on bended knee
Is so dishonourable, even in his mind
That his will to survive doesn't defy him
the strength is forced to his trembling legs
His back slowly straightens
And with raised head, the sword is lifted
The applause, the cheers, are there still
Even Death bows to strength and honour.
He is a warrior, soldier, a man, Gladiator.