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Take out the dagger,
And strike it clean,
Life, death,
And everything in between.

Brutus murmured to sadness,
The ghost of his dream,
Praying for Caesar,
To appear from the unseen.

The pride of Rome,
Brought down to its knees,
The desolation of democracy,
Was now complete.

A country divided,
Racing to arms,
Turning against each other,
An incalculable harm.

And there he was,
The wisest man of Rome,
Who once slayed the prince,
The heir to the throne.

The empire was consumed,
By implosion of dark,
The blood stained clothes,
And those hideous marks.

Brutus started to reason,
With ghost of his dream,
Whether murder was important,
The purpose of that scheme.

The dream spoke in words,
Brutus didn’t understand,
It then showed him a vision,
And his world collapsed.

For there was Caesar,
The emperor of Rome,
Standing in glory,
Beautiful as a ghost.

Terrified and shaken,
Brutus knelt in respect,
My Lord, he cried,
Secretly covering his face.

Brutus saw the figure,
Bigger than the herd,
Bigger than the morals,
Bought by this world.

His glory was certain,
Like the indefinite Sun,
His power was supreme,
Which cannot be undone.

He saw Caesar,
And he remembered Rome,
A city of bricks,
Or an idea of home?

His heart was troubled,
Looking for answers,
A home cannot have a tyrant,
Nor a dominant dictator.

Brutus saw Caesar,
Covered in disguise,
And Rome under his feet,
Decorated in lies.

Brutus realised his mistake,
To question the plot,
The Caesar was dead,
And war was not his fault.

A sly idea,
The dream whispered,
Can he kill again?
To save his morals.

Brutus looked for answers,
In this inescapable dream,
Only a sword in-front,
And his will in between.

He took up the sword,
Fuelled by rage,
But there was also fear,
And some love for his friend.

He stepped in front,
Took up the stance,
Landed a blow,
And blood was all around.

The second death of Caesar,
One in Brutus’s dream,
Had killed any doubts,
And cleansed Rome’s sins.
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