A fearful night,
and a burned bridge freshly smolders.
Such is the life of a hopeless radical.
Less sexy than a hopeless romantic,
but more useful than a hopeless idealist.
Two are ideal hands of the state,
whose hands when pressed against us
create our struggle.
Our struggle,
Our political struggle.
The hopeless radical knows
that identity is not solidarity,
and logic cannot fixate on rhetoric.
The pressing hands,
They ignite and explode gaslights
To burn and humiliate us.
This is the life of the hopeless radical,
Of the unbowed optimist.
The state, the struggle,
The hands against us,
And our rhetorical traditions.
This is our life,
The life of the unbowed,
of the unbroken,
of the hopeless radical.
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