Beware the Ides of March,
When those who love you most,
Love more, some things within their hearts.
Beware your exposed back,
When whispered voices link to hands
That reach into your slack.
Beware the coming Spring,
When rains and voices, birds and light,
Announce a rebirthed king.
Mostly just, beware your Self,
Beware of all your dreams,
For dreams and courage make believe
They know of grander things.
And drop your pack and lace your shoes,
Touch fingers to the dirt.
And breathe in deep, prepare your spine,
This shit is gonna hurt.
But hear me out, and see my soul,
And know I am sincere,
The time has come to shed your life,
To dive straight for what's dear.
We have no youth remaining when
We talk about our futures;
The future's now or soon long passed,
When lifelines all were sutured.
Yo Billy Moe! My man, my king!
They know not what they do.
So rise up now, yes rise supreme!
You know my heart's with you.
And one day from a higher perch
You'll know what games they played:
Just children lost in make believe;
But your heart's what remains.
I love you, Papa.
Happy Easter
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