On the Ides of March
A poem about death

He smiles, You cry.
He chuckles, You’ll die.
Black cloak fluttering, He chases, And you run.
But try, As you might
No escape exists Under the sun
Even as the Caesar, He’s the grim reaper, You’re his captive.
But try, As you might
To run. To escape.
Only to realize, In the end, That it was All in vain.
For everyone Must one day Face the shadows Of a setting sun
Et tu, Caesar, Are no exception On the Ides of March.
Thanks to Dr Mehmet Yildiz from Illumination for publishing!
And thanks to all of my readers for reading!
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