For Ken Saro-Wiwa

A land cracked

and torn asunder

for what lay beneath,

bleeding

to fill coffers

held in foreign lands,

dying

to feed the insatiable hunger

of the gilded locusts

A pendulum of taut rope

as a poet dances

in the air,

counting out the slowing seconds

of a silenced voice

Casting a dark shadow

that falls much further

than the piss soaked dirt below

Another world moans

and grumbles of price,

where money is the only cost conceived

and everything is secondary

to the cult of lifestyle

Empty wallets are naught

when weighed

against empty beds,

and dreams of want so empty

against memories born

of faces lost forever

Smiles we are fed

turn too quickly to snarls

once backs are turned,

and welcoming hands

become brutal fists

behind closed eyes

Only beasts

have hearts

that beat

green