He had bad breath

Beware the ides of March, they said,
But I had fallen heels over head
It was but the seventh day of January
and March looked a spot, far away

Aware of my own reality, I was-
But caught in her fantasy, too, I was-
So I spent February melancholy
With pens and journals, bottles and drugs

Alas the day came, lifted was the mist
of reverence and awe, and again I could see
The stab wounds slowly clotted and closed
Left scars of love etched in heart and skin

I am not Julius
Don't stab me with fallacy
And then walk away

The things that threat me
Never seen, but my back
When they shall see
The face of Caesar
They
Are vanished

I.
I am confined behind the walls of my very own life.
The echoing of cluttered freight trains and the laughter
of invisible clowns fill what's left of my conscience, and

the voices of old God's and hushed Devil's are my only form
of a lullaby. I'm not crazy, I'm just conscious of the overlooked.

II.
I can feel snakes when there are none. Consider this a sixth sense.
Literature clattered in the back of my throat and the top of my head,
I tried to explain this to my lover, who became increasingly

bothered by the fact that all I knew was Shakespeare, and all I spoke
of was Caesar, and the stars...to which we are underlings.

III.
A threat, they consider me. 'Not to others, but yourself.'
Fools, all of them. I was not granted a gift to have it locked away
and drowned at sea. Listen! Act! Forewarnings are scarce, and if

the Gods and the Devils have chosen me to speak, then I shall speak.
My only question: why didn't they choose someone to listen? To understand?