Ear of Wax
On the clandestine burial, 18 November 2016
Ear of wax
forehead of wax
lips and nose of wax
cheeks of wax
fingers without bones
torso without a spine
hair from someone else
that resembled what was once
the only crown you can rightly claim.
It matters little, the authenticity
of whatever remains were stuffed
in the box, hastily shoved in ground
not meant for pretend
heroes with genuine guile.
Guinness-stamped post-World War II
king of plunderers, drone-voiced singer
to a single broken-winged dove, commander
of troops that delivered eternal silence
and disappearances, I would love to see you
turn in your grave (wherever that really is).
Those who announce
their love for the scraps
of the legacy you left behind
thought they had succeeded
in stopping us
from setting you alight.