A Confused Lecture on Revolution
It’s from this where the revolution should take off,
When you’re sitting crestfallen at your heart,
There’s coldness in your feet
And a balmy heart seems to be a faraway thing,
Even more distant than intelligence.
You expect a supernova but inertia is all you have
And cold eyes, frigid hearts
Arranged in scripted circus.
When you feel the clawed fingers boring deep holes through skin,
Ripping your flesh off— remember it’s time.
The clock’s ticking.
The ground moving, moving away beneath your feet.
You want to reach the sun
Faster than a planet on its feet.
Your feet tremble; the fists clench in rage;
There are tremors channelling in veins.
Rip the demons off; shatter the veil with a loud loud punch.
Let the glass of fakery lay shattered
Along with their faces on floor.
Let all these happen while you just sit on a chair— silent—
And apparently do nothing in protest.
Not a stir. Nothing.