No Revolution
He's broken,
and too soft.
He's too sick
of tying knots.
The old man walks by, cicadas
die beneath the green facade
He's the Tsar, and change
the shooting squad as he walks on drags on
struggles on. That which needs mending,
will be trampled on.
He's too nostalgic
of what's been lost.
He's too dense
to connect their dots.
Now silence is cluttered by his parting words.
His contribution is
not second nor third
(definitely not the first
time this has happened),
'cause his was first
(his words were first),
and is first
to be wiped away.
There's no revolution this time;
he merely looks back
and forward
and recognizes
nothing.
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