Sculpture of The Suicide

If Augustus is right, then clap your hands,
Though I beg of you,
Do not dismiss me with applause from the arena;
At the very least, do not cage the lions in my heart
Burn my flesh like a blasphemer of the gods

Because you are a fine puppeteer, beloved
With the way you've sown my mouth shut
And used my body to recite ancient monologues;
The audience falls silent
As their faces stand at attention with ears pricked up
Watching me as I argue against the sun

I am no better than a gladiator in lacking liberty-
Neither labeled human nor given a right to morals
Right hand to left foot;
I'm tied down to the bottom of my bones,
Living with the ghosts of never vanquishing memories

Rise up from my bones, avenging spirit;
May you find no shelter from the storm
Unable to seek solace, may you meet your demise--alone
Without a heart, panting in a poisoned, damned cavern
That for as long as you walk with the living,
Your shadows will haunt and scoff at you

This I pray, but alas!
The fleeting years slip away, and beloved,
You have me broken;
Molded in your spitting image,
I can only but parrot your ways

I can never turn my back on you
Because you speak Orphic prophecies
And condemn me into submission,
Then abandon me on islands with nothing
But your siren's gaze

Break whatever keeps my frame upright,
Because I was once made of marble
And you left me nothing but clay;
Holding me with the same coursing cold blood
That killed the thumping of my soul
You whisper,
Per aspera ad astra