It comes
crashing back.
It comes
bearing down.
It comes
simmering up.
It comes,
it comes,
it comes.

The end of history
has ended.
Deep gasping breaths,
lungs guzzling the
cold moonlit air
for the first time. Breathe,
we're all here.
Sit in the night with us.

We gather here.
Seething. Boiling.
Our tribe not bound
by distance or creed.
This lightspeed collective.

What is the best way
to find a voice again?

Is it to sit,
build tented cities,
block motorways,
stamp and shout and scream,
but never break a window?

Never to burn a plantation
and strike down those who held your chains?

Never to throw yourself
in front of the King's horse?

History, snarling,
gives us the answer:
You cannot change this
with two open palms.