At times in our lives we are despondent or on fire. Bless that fire, our rebellion, but the guerrillas have gone, moved on. The Warriors of our rebellion became fathers and remembered they were sons. The creed we held, hate, and that, that fueled it, pain, are nothing but nostalgia. We wade naked in our lake of melancholy. The Fire we danced around jaded and twisted to light the flame of another power hungry movement. And as history goes tribes turn to states, states to countries, until all is conquered in a mass of a cityless empire. And the guerrillas became an army serving the vision of a few good ******** Somewhere along the way what we fought for, why we destroyed ourselves gets **** on and covered up as another foolish idealistic blunder.