Tonight I sing a paean to you, the good martyr
forgotten child of the street hero righteous coward
Whatever the case, you were the victim
The minutes of your life sprinted by in cold impatience like blackbirds in flight
Blood rushing in cataracts through your veins; assassin velocity
To whom did you speak?
From what corner did you buy your daily bread and what secret wishes did you silently profess to the cracking of its crust?
None of it matters! It was all a prelude
Your life was a throbbing oboe before the screeching strings and omnipresent booming horns of your death

When you died you suffered
Muscles sobbing
Skin taunt and wan
Stomach a hungry drum
On which they will play the march of your dead and your avengers

For you are their savior
Their Catalyst
Their Reason
Their Son (the irony of it; of you who had scorned forgotten never known that deep secret love of parents, you are the son!)

For you who lived in shades of gray
They will paint the streets red

And your name will be forgotten

It will be chanted till the sky grows weary of its echo
But it will not be your name

Simply an adjective tailored to fit their cause


Oh good martyr!
How short was the road you traveled, but how long was the road you paved

Perhaps it was your dream
To be as the cold statue
To be as timeless as suffering itself

But mayhap yours was another head left unheld
The hollow places left untouched aching

Mayhap (it is almost certain)
You died with your eyes open
Enamored with the soft and failing light