Orichalcum, a thirty-five millimeter disc blazing—

Sun-kissed, playing the light like gold in the mind—

An off-center mint obscures letters that plummet

Off the edge, an escape from the man imbalanced:

 

IMPPP.NEROCLAVDCAES… cecidērunt.

 

I am transfixed by the art, pompous and beautiful;

Roma, lovelier than Venus, is victorious, powerful.

 

Roman generals, during the triumphs, worshipped

By the masses, sat in the shade of a single slave

Who would whisper: memento mori, memento mori.

Remember, you are mortal—an exercise departed.

 

The benefits of such condemnation being absent,

Laurels wreaths became crowns of great exemption.

No matter how heavy the halo, it being only gilded,

Gods’ necks did not bend frail from guilt or shame.

 

Paranoia burns hot and spreads like fire, its flame

Requires not kindling wood but unending sacrifice.

Penumbra, the ghosts of shadows, twist the soul

And feed the pyre, offerings for the host of doubts.

 

Seeds are spread vast, find soil, and sprout a tree,

Growing a lineage as follows: Caesar, Kaiser, Tsar.