SOOTHSAYER

Upon the Tiber’s sacred banks,
the black grape waters idly lap
like wine within a swirling cup,
the sleek and bloodied entrails spill
between my stiff and shaking hands
to roll and coil on sun baked dust.
I see a crown of laurels there,
all seeped in false and guilty tears,
and at its heart a bitter hate,
its innards twisted like this lamb.

The noblest Roman of them all,
gilded now in ragged glory,
his breast exposed to countrymen
and those, alike, who would betray
upon the fated Ides of March.
They gather like a pack of wolves
a frenzy in their lupine eyes.
Crimson betrayal of cowards,
dripping and steaming from the blades
of silver, glinting Janus knives.

His eyes lock wildly
on each frenzied face,
as gurgling questions
stain his august lips
before they cascade
like opaque glass beads
upon white marble,
reverberating,
rattling across
a broken empire.