In the predawn red-orange blue,
atop the dark mourning hill,
stood the old rugged cross true
gazing down upon us, still
the cockroach, in its deep grooves
picks the remnants of saviors past,
slowly and steadily it moves
along the sanguine buffet in its path.
And the feast is abundant here,
as it moves down middle passages,
along tribal fissures and cultural fear
spiritual and political ravages
it flits its wings and continues descent,