by Gregory Gonzales
The Ides of March arrive without warning;
no seers, nor dreams, nor signs of schemes that morn-
-ing. Shining steel: perverse—their plot reveal’d;
my friends with knives silently mourning. Shank!
“Ye there! Sit please; come closer near we want
to speak. The choice is yours. Resign or die.”
My eyebrows raise a stony shield, “But why?”
They stood with tears; some hot with rage and some
ashake. Wet Eyes that fail’d to meet my gaze.
Trembling disguise’d with a low crooked look,
blood soak’d, stain’d Brutus oblige’d to explain,
“Despite defeat; I bade my try. With time
I did besmirch the tide. Thy mates dissent.
Whispered words seduce’d once steady faith.
I thrust the blade all those you love affix.”
Did he corrupt my Mentorship? “And you:
Et tu German? Et Bri? Et Grant? assign
this choice — more like a threat? I did not raise
my wards to wield their weight with wickedness.
Beguiled, heartbroken, bereft, my choice
I found; discharge’d myself into the dawn.
Casear’s wounds agape – I made
the gate. With dying breath: I said my peace,
“I must profess, although thine heart is los-
-ing force; thy love persists for thee.”
To their chagrin: my love I gave, and left
a sweet perfume of my integrity.