Fear not the Ides of March, or the betrayal of life, no
particular villain, just a number from which you are forced to choose, sneak
thieves in the night, snatching up the very light you need with which to see,
are forced to accept fate’s dictates, not so much a stab in the back as in the
chest, as the villain stares straight at you, smiling at his own deceit, always
a repeat, the act of aggression you must endure to survive, his grin full of malice,
a smile that is not a small, but duplicity, the dream snatched from your grasp
when you believe you have achieved it, fear not the ides of March, when each
day brings on the same, and you must find a way to maintain, to overcome, to
know who or what is worthy of trust, each day, is the same, always.
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