There lay his cadaver, still untouched
A chassis of deferred hopes and plans
Garbed in bloodied safari jacket he wore
The day a bullet abetted his demise
Wasn’t a bullet merely ordained by
The architect to this day remaining in the guise
Of a political foe, a family, or an ally?
(It depends on whose truth panders to your side)
But his dirge merely totters toward the advent
of rebirth – a crusade of liberating their angry hearts
Strewing the road of EDSA, tying yellow ribbons as an outcry
over the atrocities they tasted, that began to cloy in their mouths
Beginning to crumble, flung out of the castle
That house the king’s bedraggled throne
Will he still lord over him who died
When his death became his own death to grieve for?