To the “Brutus-es” that come and go

Ah! this hate, the anger
The cavilling of the Brutus, the betrayal,
When beneath the cloak you find the dagger
Ready to strike you at your back
You may not die, you would live
But those wounds that seemingly take eons to heal;
Like pincers they remind, time and again
Of the “other”, the Brutuses that come and go;
To leave their mark, the victory that is
The loud clarion of your anger and hate –
Their doing to undo you –
then to march upon the ashen- the ravaged
Bereft of the calm, your being turned savage
If you could see, what you have become for the Brutus
Than what you would have been,
The “I” that can be unfazed, unhurt, if it were let to be
To tell, to teach the “Brutuses” that come and go
Let their daggers remain beneath their cloaks,
But when they strike,
It would be the unseen armour –
In the “I” that resolves, the resolute, to resound
The struck would be but the Brutus, with nowhere to rebound?