The Ides of March

Death has a strange taste. I am heavy with it and every graveyard answers. For Rome. For Rome. Ah, such a dagger to drum on this day that you would smile and call me friend. I weep your demise into the sound of my breath. Returned and recycled with the eternal devil, I am cold. I am cold. Would that I could scour your belonging from my mind with the fading of this fearful night. Exile me. Hate me, when all I want is here. Here, I fall, here. I lie, here. I am. Here. And still, in all my piteous hope, I cannot hold back the day. I watch in salted ruin as the sun breaks crimson as any king. A feathered and fraudulent heart, and I bleed with the naivety of its restless pounding. Peace is not enough, sleep is not enough, death is not enough, for those who chase extinction. The assassin stirs. A brave and valiant soul they say, when truth is such a cunning dancer. As one man, we have talked of life and death as if it can be born so easily, carried on a single kiss perhaps? And yes, I believed them. Every sigh. Every word was persuasion to my vanity. I even thought I was the protagonist for a while. There was a Brutus once. But no matter, no matter. I am cold and everything burns. Everything. In the fall.  We have run aground, my friend. Not in our stars, but in ourselves, broken on the rocks of a thousand ambitions, and I am held against the wall. For friendship brings such silent chorus to this barbed horizon, and I wonder if I will still carry your name in the corners of my mind? Already I miss your silence more than your words. So the golden-haired sons have spoken, and for all this lament I still hold steady with the inking of my shadow. Beware the Ides of March; so it is that warnings have a way of keeping score, and it was never that I loved you less, but Rome that I loved more.

32 thoughts on “The Ides of March

  1. When in Rome decry the moonless night that bids all shadows turn full to darkness. Streets once lived find naught alive as cobbles alone tell the tale of the path. Walls are corners that lead to halls that lead to walls with corners again. What find you in the zig and zag and colorless sticky moist? Fear of your own breath? Bones be or bones become, best travel blind than rest in shadowless night.

    Okay. I read this the other day and it forced me to write something. So…I read it again today and that wasn;t what I wanted to say…Brilliant. Woven like rope.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. Splendid stuff. I like the new paint job on the site as well. Always wondered what the place looked like with the lights on and the windows open…

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Unicorns are forever “our thing.” I’ve been too busy as well. Life happens, as John said, when you’re busy making other plans. I love you, still. And I hope you are well. ❤

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Yes. Computers are the devil. The devil work horse. It’s not too late to work with me regarding a commune off grid.

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  5. We have run aground, my friend.
    Not in our stars, but in ourselves,
    broken on the rocks of a thousand ambitions,
    and I am held against the wall.

    How could he know but by living a life between shipwreck and ecstasy?
    My day confirmed, my life explained and the wall has a crack.

    Thank you also for appreciating my thoughts on

    Liked by 2 people

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