#brutus - Hello Poetry

Its very weird… I looked into their faces the ones who truly broke me. No enemies among them. Just Brutus, in many forms, smiling. Familiar hands, and mouths, that once said I never would. as they held the knife like a gift.

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May 19, 2025

May 19, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC

Cadmus

No Enemies

Its very weird… I looked into their faces the ones who truly broke me. No enemies among them. Just Brutus, in many forms, smiling. Familiar hands, and mouths, that once said I never would. as they held the knife like a gift.

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an ancient lyric, come to haunt, no longer a shield, now thinner, of gossamer consistency, a tissue-thin papyrus, “my poetry to protect me” the poem words always were a clarinet reed, capable of singing, a highest pitch voice for turning blades of clean steel clean away, now blunting paper bunting, penetrated. re-formed my shield, re-purposed, into a stabbing instrument offensive, my poetry pricking tearings in my worn thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I. this is life. moats becoming drowning pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments, wrecking machines, boulders hurling, medieval defenseless against modern rhymes giving away to free verse horde onslaught. too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words, my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined by doubts treachery breech birthed from within, these verses hollow point bullets engineered, Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.

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Jun 21, 2020

Jun 21, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC

night-unkind

“my poetry to protect me”

an ancient lyric, come to haunt, no longer a shield, now thinner, of gossamer consistency, a tissue-thin papyrus, “my poetry to protect me” the poem words always were a clarinet reed, capable of singing, a highest pitch voice for turning blades of clean steel clean away, now blunting paper bunting, penetrated. re-formed my shield, re-purposed, into a stabbing instrument offensive, my poetry pricking tearings in my worn thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I. this is life. moats becoming drowning pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments, wrecking machines, boulders hurling, medieval defenseless against modern rhymes giving away to free verse horde onslaught. too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words, my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined by doubts treachery breech birthed from within, these verses hollow point bullets engineered, Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.

26

I make my grave in her dark treason of hair, Fragrant master of soldiers and memories, Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls. Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips. Flow then like black gloss of birds And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward, Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off, While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths. Love, you are the hardest grave, Were you ever just a kiss Or always from daggers made?

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Jun 4, 2019

Jun 4, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC

ChrisSaitta

Portia, My Love

I make my grave in her dark treason of hair, Fragrant master of soldiers and memories, Bei capelli, conspiracy of internecine curls. Her upbraidings strangle all my sweet nothings To breathless wish of the emperor-purple of lips. Flow then like black gloss of birds And the brood hatchlings of shadow, exiled eastward, Fled like a premonition of warmth somewhere far off, While the wine-colored blood spills his heart into a throng of mouths. Love, you are the hardest grave, Were you ever just a kiss Or always from daggers made?

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