Gladiator Games

The arena is built lie by lie, sobs by sobs.
Names don't matter.
A game is still a game,
called by any other name.

Children with ribs like shattered shields
do not volunteer; they are raised for slaughter.
They don't fight hungry lions, only eyes,
trained to devour without guilt.

The crowd appears with open mouths—
not for speech, but for swallowing.
They neither cheer nor detest.
They consume and participate.
They are fluent in silence.

The emperor, a maestro of manipulation,
raises the goblet of power,
sloshing blood and tears.
His face changes with pointed fingers.
He gives a thumbs up to the metrics of misery.

The rules are simple:
Follow or fall.
Bend your spine or lose your limbs.
Stones not allowed.
Truth not permitted.

Every time period has a flavour.
Rome preferred marble and martyrdom.
Medieval kings chose fire and famine.
Modern states favor embargoes and false narratives.

The game has been staged in coliseums, in camps,
in barbed wire theaters of ash, and on screens.
The stage was always a meat grinder
dressed as monument— polishing bones and calling it legacy.

History didn’t archive the game—
it franchised and licensed it.
This century renamed the bloodsport: Genocide.
Happy playing to all— the arena is open twenty-four seven
The scoreboard counts bodies. And the audience never leaves.