Thin, knotted length of old school tie,
once worn so tight around his neck,
but now on sale on E-Bay,
with its evidence of bloodstains,
more likely to be gravy.
Back in his home town, no music
plays; only a single snap, but
not of fingers; catch the beat:
a song of peace, unbearable
as the sight of dancing feet.
His was an orchestra, funded
from long buried magic; though black
in origin, history
will play discordant tunes and make
screaming strings a symphony.
Now dancers beg for money, as
the winter of his martyrdom
only proves no sacrifice
can turn the sun or warm the moon;
lives are malice without price.
