I place my feet,
the same
that my father
when living
oft referred
as bloody great plates of meat.
Right here
where Shakespeare
hangs in the air
"et tu Brute".
Where when dead
life's blood fled
deep beneath the flagstone cracks.
The echoes
and fear
I smell survives
as I try to comprehend
in whose footsteps I stand.
I wonder
what might be
added to history
if his DNA
be found beneath.