Ides of March

Fools, Brutes at best,
mobbed in lust,
for power, a coup to mute
his voice in history...
The Republic shouts,
Caesar is dead!

Statesmen, fools none the less,
gave their king
a gift meant for Gods,
immortality...
As they wrote in blood,
the Ides of March, Beware!

Blood flows again,
and again,
March to summers many,
through the bitter winters,
across Europe, Persia, the new world...
The red clot on a white robe
still stands out, but why?
For he was Julius,
not just another Harvard graduate
at an Oval Office.