If batons and bullets
and sticks and stones
and gas and grenades
could rid the world
of every spine
that dared to stand up and ask why,
or worse, say no,
revolution would be a museum artifact,
behind glass,
with a little plaque explaining
how humanity once mistook obedience for peace.
The ones who belong in museums
keep finding crowns,
mistaking the present for their kingdom
and the past for an inheritance.
The guillotine, too,
was once a government instrument.
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