DEATH MARCH

On concrete slab

round table,

outside rumshop,

served cold

to country

on platter

like John's

to Herodias,

a la carte

Columbian cartel style,

a head,

severed,

separated from shell,

left lying lifeless, abandoned,

in abandoned canefield,

bitter harvest

of deluded quest for sugar

of quick material gains.

Karma comes round

on the wheel of misfortune

in a hostile game of hustle

in a hostel named California.

I stand at the window,

on the outside peering in,

on the inside peering out.

Belafonte's yellow bird has flown

its paradisal tropic island nest.

Gone the sweet and tender bird calls 

of our innocence.

There is nothing left but silence

of secret ops

(and cover ups by crooked cops),

and the melody

of a symphony, a sympathy,

for the Devil and a bedevilled nation.

The marching band of death is playing loudly

but death marchers have forgotten
how to march.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance