'Till The Ides Of March
'Tis, not that tears have never trickled, nor formed itself against soft cheeks
Strength does not itself come from the holding in nor stifling of
'Tis that they have trickled and blurred countless times and now deplete
I'll do no more, and cry even less
The vessel that beneath cloaks of black
beats no more for that which in its inconsequential state
has caused lies to perpetuate
It, the thing beneath
sees not the goodness that once blinded
but the jealousy, hatred, and disregard for truth and human kindness
It beat's no more for things hoped, and as it festers, and dries so too do the tears.
I shall no more cry for indeed 'tis a pointless emotion
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