The key to Cleopatra is not in the men she bedded
or the asp that took her life,
it is in the mystery of beauty.

I see her silhouetted against the centuries
a fine greek nose, a curve of hip
echos of her voice in Shakespeare
her dark hair still in the breeze of ages

Perhaps, the poetry of her words
became little Caesar,
became reason enough to kill her?

Beauty is to hard a thing to break
to chisel out – even with time –
and time has revealed her
harder still.

It was surely a hot day in Egypt
when she kissed the snake,
cold blooded, sharp toothed, dry skinned,
choosing her fate
not accepting it.

Perhaps, the poetry of her choices
became the seed of destruction
in the new empire?

Beauty is a hard thing to break
to saw and shape – even with tools –
and time has all the power
of her tools.

I see her, clearly, over miles and time
staring out into rage of destiny
wearing courage like a jewel on her heart
forgoing the frippery of hope
for the finery of faith.
I see in her the certainty,
beauty does not break.