Rome
I am Rome conquered, by my vices.
Veiled with adorned armours of Caesar.
But at nights is haunted with Caesar’s spirit,
Which yells ‘There is no such place wherein your solace resides, no one who looks at you with pride.’
I am Brutus advised, by my kins to stab Caesar,
But still in my sorrow I tend to drown deeper,
With my promises I’m bound,
Sorry but alternatives for my pain, I have not found.
I am sorry to all the ones who care,
As I know for this mistake, I won’t be spared.
On my explanation before my beloved reader, we part,
‘It's better to sit with guilt and slits, with my soul torn.
Rather to lay quiet with blood of one’s own’
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