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
'Et tu Brute?'
Inspired by William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.
I am not Julius
Don't stab me with fallacy
And then walk away
How thin must Cassius be
For Caesar to not trust?
He had good reason not to for
A dagger he did ******.
But intentions unbeknownst to he
Just eyes a gossamer frame.
With an ambitious hunger
To keep crown from being proclaimed.
For in the Tiber Caesar did flounder
As if he were the archaic Anchises.
A yelp for help for Gaius Cassius
To save him from this crisis.
And he as Aeneas,their great ancestor
Lifted that mortal Julius upon his shoulder.
Waded through the angry flood
And dropped him down like a boulder.
How could you not trust
A man that saved your life?
Doing something so careless
Maybe deserves the ambitious knife.
Et tu, plebeian?
why was rome
built on bones?
hundreds of dead
caught by arrows or
blind cuts of steel
crowd the rivers,
the roads, the very
air and it is so so hard
every corner is a reminder
of public executions, outdoor
gallows, diving into shallow seas,
exsanguination in the roads till
red rivulets made new paths in
caesar was not the first man to
bring about pax *** bellum
to train armies to battle their own
hearts and find nothing there at all–
rei republica falls,
the dead do not become lazarus
i listened to an audiobook detailing julius caesar's life
The things that threat me
Never seen, but my back
When they shall see
The face of Caesar
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.
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.
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?
— The End —