The Rebel from a Revolution

Rebel isn't an idea
Rebel isn't a perspective
Rebel isn't an abstract
Rebel is just an epithet

One more of those hundred names you call out everyday defining all of what couldn't be outlined in your thesaurus of explanations

Revolution though is an idea
An idea that cherishes hope
A hope that serves life

Revolution isn't about rebels coming of age
Revolution isn't about the legends who script sagas

Revolution is you
Revolution is me
Revolution is us
All of us
Each and every in the singulars and the plurals
Every crumb of what we are
Every dime of who we are
Every grain of what we would not
Every slice of who we could not

In awareness and in intuit
We feed a revolution everyday
We breathe a revolution every ticking hour hand of the racing wall clock

Does that make us revolutionaries

We are no revolutionary
We are the revolution

And yet we cast away existences in the name of rebel
Call them outliers
Burn them in the name of democracy
Until we become them

We are all rebels
For
We all do have questions

Questions for the God
Questions for the Government
Questions for the definitions
Questions for the sanity
Questions for the answers we are told to be answers

And yet just some of us turn rebels
And the rest of us call them names condemning them in the name of oddity



Where did it all go wrong
Where did the equations fall apart
Where did the symphonies lose their rhythm
Where did the men and the women forget their voices

Too many have given up on the idea of questions
For questions turn you anarchists
For questions make you anti-nationals
For questions burn down houses
For questions bleed in bullet wounds
For questions scathe the very being of us

For questions aren't mere questions; questions are death notes for the cowards we have made of us

The cowards inhabit the world
Every one life till the very last of them
They are all cowards
We are all cowards

It's all a tale of cowards and lesser cowards

There are
Cowards who look death in the eye
Cowards who shiver down their broken spines
Cowards who are trapped in the making of history
Cowards who turn corpses in search of revolution

And then
There are
Cowards who seek comfort in the denial of realities
Cowards spineless crawling up the ribs of spined carcasses
Cowards who script history to suit their purposes
Cowards who die in their breath everyday


What do cowards know of revolution


But the revolution is here
And it will burn us all



What is revolution without a few spent lives
What is revolution without a few costed deaths