Revolution

You marched,
shouted and sweated.
With barricades broken:
you bled, died and cried.
Carried on, completed
and the king was crushed.
Yet was the revolution yours, or was it theirs?

Back to life,
to the humdrum.
To a no one when you were a someone.
In a crowd as one, but who led you on?
Did they charge first, or
at the back plotted and planned.
You fought and died, but for what,
did they plan for?

Death and taxes, the old refrain:
an inherited lot.
No matter the struggle; the toil and trouble.
Yet does the air smell sweet: a clean, honest odour.
Or is it foul, with the corrupted scent of good gone bad?

On the revolutionary road,
but where do you get off?
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Blocking up the road

There's big men, in big cars, with small ideas.
On little roads, they're driving fast;
as the world leaves them behind.
Observe, we look, regard and bemoan.
Held up, blocked out - we wanna kick them out the way.
Stunted, staid, refrained
- restricted we rage and cry.
A breakout a breakthrough;
or backdown and bottle it.
Choice for what's new and unknown;
or become the big men in big cars, blocking up the road.

What price change?
What price acceptance?
Plunge the dagger in your fathers' back, lest your son plunge his in yours.
A bloody lament awaits.
A bloody shame it if doesn't.

Friend kills friend,
yet they'll battle for the same thing.
Deep wounds may not mend.
When you become a big man, in a big car, with small ideas.
Blocking up the road.
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