All rebels are rebels without a cause.
They thought they had a cause once,
but times change. It becomes more of a pretext,
an excuse, a vague, nebulous sense of discontent.
Yes, the world's broken,
but although we start off by thinking we can bridge
the great chasm running down the middle of things,
eventually we realise it runs through the middle of us,
and our revolution stalls, dwindles and thins out
until it becomes an ideological comb over,
a story we tell ourselves to pretend we are still young,
a reflection we turn towards to see our good side,
the precarious arrangement of mirrors we prop up
to observe ourselves side on, in heroic profile,
then curse the double chin that ruins it.
When we were young we practised our microphone pose,
imagining crowds rallied by our incandescent truth.
Now we grow old, and our powers wane, and we realise
we have failed to deliver our youthful insights in time,
before it dawned on us we were wrong about everything.
We are betrayed by every hero, one by one, until at last
we are betrayed by ourselves. History does not remember
those who deserve the credit, only those who claim it,
and the only progress that we recognise and celebrate
is eventually revealed to be fraudulent anyway.
To make a difference, first accept obscurity,
and whatever revolution there is in that
will be known only to you.