The Rebel...
he is tired imagining those villages of
yore, hamletted natives, authorities telling them
how to live, where, when,
that is the bitter part of the question
when do you cease living? the gun is telling everyone the answer
follow or you die,
not the natural way, they will kill you in an instant and bury you
the very same day, without the christian rituals,
he is tired of the running and the convincing,
taking the chickens of other people and passing through the seven
rivers,
he is tired of being numb
to the consequences of the uprising
his ears are painful
his arms are failing him
he wants to retrace his steps back to the fold
but he cannot return and the equation is simple and this he must
understand fully
no metaphors are needed for him to know
that the uprising is unnecessary
irrelevant
that he himself has become impertinent
but the harshest is this
he has become the most incompetent decor
of the system
discarded.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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