Alone in the snow

Our movement has been crushed, a defeat so emphatic it hurts to write of it. Yet we still live on, we still lift our faces to the sun, birth and raise children. The last 15 years I look back on with the calculated interest of an antiquarian scholar. Shifting indentities come in and out of focus, sometimes appearing as separate lives (If you are not at odds with yourself then you are in denial)
We have been out maneuvered on every front so many lost, co-opted, sold out, drifted away, victimized by their own narcotic therapies, taken by disease and time; others have become the antithesis of all they once stood for. What of those who are left, clinging to fossilized ideologies to stop themselves from going under.-We shall come rejoicing bringing in the sheep-
Singing hymns at the anti-christs funeral. Spasmodically fanning the dying embers of revolution, running out from shadows cloaked in ambiguity, finding human dignity in the hand thrown missile.
Tracing the fault lines in the hope they will lead to some center, some pulsing brain in a huge fish tank, a flashing computer matrix, seething nest of masons plotting day and night at giant mahogany tables. One withered and senile old white man sitting alone waiting for his potty to be emptied, just someone or something to hold accountable, some physical presence to articulate our hatred at. If such a center does exist, might we find ourselves in a hall of mirrors much the same as Bruce Lee in 'Enter the Dragon' but with no adversary except our own reflection. Smashing them one by one with impotent rage and sense of our own powerlessness, standing waiting for our pseudo mystical enlightenment.