the failed anarchist

I

I don't think I have the ability to change the world. 

None of us do, In the end it's all about surviving.

The dull, monochromatic delivery of words,

so many times repeated. 

The fire of hope and determination,

Once burned in ashy eyes now dead and black. 

Snuffed out like cold charcoal in abandoned fireplaces.

How many times have we heard this? 

That change is impossible, 

That the world is too far gone, 

That all we have left to do is wait for our turn,

To die on a cold, spinning rock we call earth?

II

For this is what the failed anarchist said to me,

As he drank himself away in an old stuffy bar.

This old anarchist past his prime parading,

Streets in black jackets, sits now in bitterness.

For those who feel this way, 

life is better lived disconnected from the world outside. 

News feeds filled with dystopian levels of warnings 

Flooded by continuous waves of scrolling.

His flame burned brightly with new rage,

But lacked the flicker of introspection,

As his old anger towards systems directs outwards,

A flame all but died out, drenched in brandy.

III

And what could I say to him?

Hope was burning bright in our younger selves.

We have yet to have given up,

Yet do we see our own future in him?

“No!” I scream, I reject this idea,

I will not become chained to nostalgia.

Viewing the past with rosy glasses,

Refusing to acknowledge the changes we’ve made.

A black jacket and molotov is not an ethos.

Did he wear the colors, spew the language,

But lack any understanding of his ideals?

For was he even an anarchist at all?