A Conversation With Myself

Let's pretend: you be Nero.
There is Rome.
Here is a fiddle.
This is me, dancing.
"When willt he joy return to your face?"
"Some have spines, some don't.
Would fabrication be better than none?"
(Fallen measure.)
"How do you want me to answer that one?...
I pick these scabs merely to see if they will bleed,
And they aren't,
Or won't".
Coming at me wearing a mask and a gown I asked,
"What are you supposed to be?"
You say "honestly, I don't know".
"Just give me a reason to wear this skin" was all I could say.
Let's pretend: you be Nero.
There is Rome.
Here is a fiddle.
This is me, dancing in our flames.
What's done is done, it's in the past.
Written in pen, "history" as they say.
The ink is permanent just as is this past,
Faded a little but that's the best we can do for....

I will just impale myself with this pen.

I will just impale myself with this pen.