Muammar Gaddafi: A Poem

He was found – Gaddafi – in a pipe,

At Sirte he was killed, his hometown no more. With IPhones

And camcorders he was degraded in front of the world. His last request

“Please take care of me”, forever doomed to echo in history.

With the ominous reply, “Who took care of us?”, a single fighter answered for Libya.

In a bloodless coup he rose, but fell from within a bloody sewer. 42 years,

Is long enough to forget the taste of uncontrolled violence, and not be behind it.

In his land he was king, supreme leader, a Bedouin hero.

For a time he was admired – an Arabic Che Guevara – but then like dominoes,

Abidine Ben Ali, Mubarak fell, with Muammar close behind.

The rebels, terrorist, freedom fighters – whatever the disposition – took his throne

With his golden gun and paraded:

Their trophy the dictator swathed in fear and blood, beaten down the street.

They say he was nervous – an angry and disappointed man. The suicide mission,

The dash for his birthplace was one last wound upon his injured escape.

With that even failing, he scrambled like a rat (an old man) into the

Lowliest

Dankest

Death.

But the planet wonders, did he know his end was nearing?

The civil war ignored through ignorance and arrogance until

Tripoli, his crown, fell.

A man of such murder should not, perhaps, have asked his final question:

“What have I ever done to you?”