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

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