PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I'm just the ashes of the Ides of March

so softly blown away

I'm just the skeleton of frailty

so mightilly fallen

I was a king, I was a god,

I was a humble wife

Of memories held like icicles from my

red rimmed eyes



The tide begins its march of soldiers

all on parade

The clock it moves its weary hands

to the piper's beat

I was a king, I was a god

I was an aching slave

To memories pressed like cold blades

to my cream white skin



All has transpired and what it is

will always be

I hear the Ides of March faint echoes

on the wind

Never a king, Never a god

Always obliging servant

For the memories sharp like broken glass

against the palms of my hands