top of page

The Ides



There is no cage for the likes of me,

The likes of you have tried fervently

To twist and force, coerce, contort

Me into naught but weak-willed lackey.

Your misstep lies in plots connived,

In miscalculations quietly contrived,

Your blade stopped at its attempted burial;

My spine, an assembly of abandoned knives.

You split my tongue to make me the serpent,

To force my bending, my words’ relenting,

But I twice-fold speak my truth, ruthlessly;

There is nothing for which I am repentant.

Thus you turn to self-idolatry,

Thinking yourself wise, fair, kingly,

So blinded by your own veneer,

You can no longer see,

You are no such royalty, my dear,

You are naught but my kindling

 

© 2022 Damon Barret Roe, All Rights Reserved.


20 views

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page