A fiddle by a fire

They say Nero played his fiddle as Rome burned to the ground,
I feel like him now- pen in hand:
spilling inmortal black blood into pools of infinity,
trying to pull some kind of beauty from the gloom.
No matter what I do the city will still be falling.
The city- my family- Dearest friends.
Its not my fault: how could I forsee this?
I did not cause it- nor am I a part- more a bystander
Just watching, as flames leap form building to building,
as perfect statues spoil.
They say Nero also used a fine emerald to see- for he was near sighted.
I wonder if the world looks brighter in green..
Maybe if I looked through an emerald too I could see a way to fix things,
undo shatter- unburn ash- mend the wounds that seem so deep.
yet maybe with knowing would come the wisdom to let things burn that should burn,
as fate chooses,
like what Nero chose not to do.
He who sat playing his fiddle as Rome was burned.