‘Nero Before the Tomb of Simon Magus’ by Shaun C. Duncan

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Nero Before the Tomb of Simon Magus

And Peter, looking steadfastly against Simon, said: “I
adjure you, ye angels of Satan, who are carrying him
into the air, to deceive the hearts of the unbelievers, by
the God that created all things, and by Jesus Christ,
whom on the third day He raised from the dead, no
longer from this hour to keep him up, but to let him go.”
And immediately, being let go, he fell into a place called
Sacra Via, that is, Holy Way, and was divided into four
parts, having perished by an evil fate. Then Nero
ordered Peter and Paul to be put in irons, and the body
of Simon to be carefully kept three days, thinking that he
would rise on the third day.

—Acts of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul

I.

Three days she’s laid there, clawing at the dust
Outside his tomb. Insane with grief or else
Bewitched, she spits out bitter prophecies
And bares her teeth at those who stray too close.
They say this ragged whore seduced a god
—Indeed, the Holy God Himself, some say—
A god who fell to earth, a god who died
And lies at rest inside this borrowed tomb.
And now, she claims he’ll raise himself from death,
Re-join those shattered bones and crown himself
Caesar of all creation, now and ever.

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II.

Caesar of all creation—how absurd!
What fraud or fool would dare claim such while I
Draw breath and worship none but my own Will?
What god or man could lust as Nero lusts:
As one who’d banquet on the flesh of gods
And quaff the blood of Persian emperors,
Who would defile the source of all creation
And take the universe for his own whore?
Compared to one who could but close his eyes
And kill the world, can any claim to live?
None are but I; the rest exist to serve.

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III.

Fear not the stinking corpse behind the stone—
Let him play Caesar to the hungry worms!
And may his harlot curse her careless faith
When she is given to my goatish guards—
They’ll soon despoil her of those modest charms.
And what of that dour, rustic sorcerer
Who claims to wield no power of his own
Yet uttered but a word and broke the spell?
The crowd might like to see him torn to pieces
By starving beasts, or better—crucified;
Everyone loves the cross these days, it seems.

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IV.

But neither blood nor terror slake my thirst
As they once did; they only seem to feed
That dread of varlet night and fresh damnation
In dreams of desperate flight down vagrant streets,
Pursued by grinning men with gleaming knives
Whose choking laughter turns to mother’s sobbing.
Then, as the first blade strikes, a new sun rises
And all the horrors of the night demand
Revenge upon the innocence of day.
Some say the grave brings peace from fear and lust
But if we’re doomed to dream in death, what then?

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V.

What if our yearnings hint at something higher:
A final resting place, but not in death—
No, not in death, but in the fundament
Of life itself, eternal and divine;
A love unspoiled, which hides behind creation
Yet sets its highest shrine inside each heart?
And if it would some day reveal itself,
To show to us that we are loved in kind,
Then it could only come to us as man
And should we spurn this love then surely we
Are damned to die forever and a day—

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VI.

Ah, but look now: she rises as they roll
Away the stone and steps up to the threshold.
She cries her Lord’s sweet name: “Dear Simon—come!”
And strains to see into the black beyond,
Anticipating his most tender kiss.
There is no answer, just the mournful stench
Of his corruption on the stale, warm air.
A thousand whining flies emerge and whirl
In maddening circles but, like foolish thoughts,
They quickly scatter as their awful hum
Is swallowed by her bright, exquisite scream.

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Shaun C. Duncan is a picture framer and fine art printer who lives in Adelaide, South Australia.