The Dead Revolutionary

The revolutionary died.
Marched into hedonism
worn from isms gave up
being blinded by vision.
She saw too clearly
there was no end in sight.
Late nights w/ bowls of death that
wouldn’t come but would sit on the
side of the bed mocking
in ancestors voices tore the stars
from her eyes and filled her
nose with the copper scent
of her own bloody tears.
She left tearing pieces of history for dreams
in neon colors rolling slow like
a last spring that blooms surreal in dead
winter's face, whispering poems with
missing words. Mostly verbs.
Meanwhile somewhere in every hood
On the corner not tapping,
being tapped,
Bonjangles ain’t dancing,
he’s serving methadone
to poets who OD'ed on dreams of
Revolutionaries gobbled
like living sandwiches.
We await the missing verbs.