Strolling through a park in autumn,
I imagine myself as Emperor Nero
Entering the Roman Colosseum.
The snapping sound of twigs
Beneath my sneakers is not unlike
The crunch of sand under sandals.
The dark orange leaves that fall
From bone-thin tree boughs
Become red rose petals thrown
From spectators in the stands.
They adorn my tomb and foretell
The death that is to come. Soon.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen