King (with acknowledgement to the influence of Gil Scott Heron) – 13.12.11

Squeezed into the box of another man’s death

Displayed in a windowless room


Escorted in, gaze at him who died so thin

In late November on a chair, at a window

Surveying what he believed he owned

But did not

For we own nothing but our minds

and what we hold within

Here he lays fists clenched but empty

Clinging to the last grey hope

That passed through him like a ghost

As footsteps drew closer, clearer

No sir, nearer

Wind follows anger through the door

A knife pulls a peasant across the floor

A man who didn’t own less

Takes the life of a man who didn’t own more

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