Runcible Spoon

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All rebels are rebels without a cause.

They thought they had a cause once,

but times change. It becomes more of a pretext,

an excuse, a vague, nebulous sense of discontent.

Yes, the world's broken,

but although we start off by thinking we can bridge

the great chasm running down the middle of things,

eventually we realise it runs through the middle of us,

and our revolution stalls, dwindles and thins out

until it becomes an ideological comb over,

a story we tell ourselves to pretend we are still young,

a reflection we turn towards to see our good side,

the precarious arrangement of mirrors we prop up

to observe ourselves side on, in heroic profile,

then curse the double chin that ruins it.

When we were young we practised our microphone pose,

imagining crowds rallied by our incandescent truth.

Now we grow old, and our powers wane, and we realise

we have failed to deliver our youthful insights in time,

before it dawned on us we were wrong about everything.

We are betrayed by every hero, one by one, until at last

we are betrayed by ourselves. History does not remember

those who deserve the credit, only those who claim it,

and the only progress that we recognise and celebrate

is eventually revealed to be fraudulent anyway.

To make a difference, first accept obscurity,

and whatever revolution there is in that

will be known only to you.