Et tu Bruté

In an empty carousel, I needed to prove my worth

Trembled with lust and fear

With infinite revolution in rhythm.

It turns every truth a lie.

What hast thou to maketh of me? 

A saint? a man? a dead soul? 

Or an unborn lover with his mighty will?

Unsleep and potions inebriated hath killed the humane in me.
It has been ages. 

Yoked in the lost hymen of debuted passion

have you killed a Ceaser in your womb, 

Me parented by?

All ye  know not the deception that love bringeth forth 

With the incandescent breath of jealousy to recreate
And ignite destruction.

Love turns a powder cannon to lick a bleeding wounded hole
In the scholastic soul 

Which once had dreamt of a profound, however baseless,
Feather to fly off. 

This dandy life, 
Full of mischievous mirth

bottlenecked to mighty miseries. 

It dared aspire once,
To have all the wings to fly out of the turret
Of calculated strangeness added to beatitude. 

I do wonder, wonderfully, 

How might love be so falsified! 

Nay it is...

I, thus, revolt in the name of Love

To wound my soul,  

With every reeking cut to ope its scarlet lip 

To redress in silence --
"Et tu Bruté!" 

The carousel creeps on revolving with its stoic gestures
With solitude shedding its beads of profanation.