Blades behind togas

Envy tormented souls

Cassius’s insisting whispers

And Brutus’s twisted emotions

March 14th

It was the soothsayer’s prophecy

A lionheart must fall

And a great one indeed

Daggers unsheathed

Swords drawn

Let loose the dark, murderous heart

And the ceaseless, devouring greed for power

23 stabs

The leader crumpled 

The conspirators’ smug leer

Cold and malicious

Satisfied that power 

Was in their grasp

In the very heart of their palm

Drowning in the pool of blood

The leader gazed

Resigned and demoralized

And murmured

“Et Tu, Brute?”

The young man said nothing

And turned away

Expressionless

Yet his inside was turbulent

The leader covered his face

And let Death take him away

For pain

Not from the sharp blades

But of the betrayal

Was too much   

To bear...

“And you, child?”