I: Rhombus Vivat

Rhombus Vivat

Against a background of well-meaning jackboots
marching to a silent beat that fills his mind
the figure hugs the wall
timing the passing of searchlights
until he can limp
crouching low
across the open square
where the admiring thousands
had toasted the dictator
and roasted a million books.
Scorched pages still hang
on the breeze left by the dictats
of the supporters.
A page catches in the sleeve of his shapeless coat
and as he pulls away the rainstained fragment
a single line stands out
grasping his eye
and hammering home its point
in a manner as brutal
as the dictator's repression
of Rhombus' ideals.

"To thine own self be true, and it follows.."

In tears, he flees the city
where he has dwelt hidden in the walls
and roof spaces for so long,
hoping to wrest control of his destiny
from his tormentor
A city he will never see again,
and visit only in brief remembrances
regretting barren days.

He cries now, not for himself
nor even for the teeming millions
who still march to the anthem
separating normality into
clearly defined envelopes.
He cries for the waste,
for the opportunities squandered
because he was never brave enough
to free himself from the fools.
For the words not written
and the women not loved,
for the games not played
and the growth unachieved.
He cries for his ghost
unborn, who walks beside him
applauding his escape
forgiving Rhombus for his birth,
the final realisation of the one
to whom he must be true.
Surrounded by the silent cheers
of the million possible selves
whose erstwhile passivity
consigned them to the ether of unbeing.
Rhombus flees the city of his past
to build a new one
in the glare of its shadow.

In the old city,
only the echoing streets
morn his loss.