It Was Murder When They Killed Him

It was murder when they killed him,
unrepentant murder in the dark,
murder by high handed colonists
with deep rooted fears,

a military styled ambush from start to finish
and concealed afterwards by the
vagaries and fog of an apathetic memory.

Now every fire, every quake,
every chemical spill and bridge collapse
is blamed on his restless vengeful spirit;
every time the river floods its narrow banks
it’s the result of his immortal malice.

Even in death he is to blame.

But the manufacture of experimental explosives
continues underground in secret bunkers
hidden from overhead satellite cameras.
Production of trinitroturbulance
continues despite the leeching of toxic compounds
into the soil and water,
despite the explosion in tunnel thirteen

where those crippled by the blast
were left to die, alone,
deserted in the cavernous dark.
The colonists sealed the pit,
but their guilt remains.