The Last Cut
“Beware the Ides of March.”
Et tu Brutus
I lay here waiting
where whispers weave through the halls
my edge honed and keen
to carve a fate long foretold
a crimson tide soon unfolds
A hand once trusted
now grips me with steady force
I strike through his flesh
his cry, a vow torn apart
a bond now lost in the dark
Through solemn duty
I am thrust without remorse
yet honor falters
beneath his dimming vision
I gleam—his fate now is done
03-15-2025
© F Aparici