Apostrophe to Martin

Two lifetimes I have seen since yours began
and still I am not free, though haunted by
your words, blood-coated with your passion, seeped
into a history of marching feet.
The cadence of the years still cannot stand
their purity, and you, baton still high,
drum major for a righteousness you saw
that lived in dreams, still march...and I cannot.

Best that you died
for you would not abide
another line of voters in the rain,
their voices slain by perfidy and fraud
their backs still open to the lash of scorn,
scarce remembering

the wounds that you received
when all you wanted
was to love somebody.

No, it didn't get much easier.
The love around this shrinking ball
got stretched from that one
restless floor beneath the sea,
but many more died
from the restless greed
and lust for naked power
when love was set aside.

Right now there's not much zeal
for marching, Martin.
We need your voice again
to sing with us,
though I am one who still believes
that "We shall overcome

someday."
~