I know what happened. I was told.
Still I refused that sullen, depthless import.
This I know: That the earth was parched thick with want of self.
That feeling alone she nearly drowned in empty sentiment,
remnants of those powerless children who only yesterday, throned futile.
With dust, dirt and poverty of blood
you filled the cracks borne of stunted pigs.
Betrayed Dignity's denial of love's embrace,
assimilating shards like some mad thorn-starved christ.
You fought for those murdered
and from jailed fist purged a blood
deftly melded to life's own fury;
ALL Power to the People.
You spent sightless words on attentives feigned.
Reaped hollow sounds from false and putrid eyes.
Petitioned die-ers, long since dead.
Your love shelled safe with gentle reverence
one lone and sacrificial lamb.
The gods did bleed their shame
with turned down face.
Begrudgingly they bloated fast
to dispute their own existence.
In hero's deserve lie burled the darkest of funeral.
A thousand silent guns unmark sacred ground.
River and sea give way and in it's place?
A rested clearing cleansed by a driving rain.
It was I who sang death's song of want.
Must I now carry this burden,
ground to graceful dust,
in my pocket's deep forever?
