Consider the odds,
consider the obvious.
The martyr is meaningless,
the campaign has died.
In the planning stages
and the fallen faces
are the singular proof
that it was ever alive.

This purchased rebellion
has been outdated,
denounced and rescinded
and left to die championless.
I begged you not to go.
I begged you, I pleaded.
Claimed you as my only hope
and watched the floor
as you retreated.

Hope has sprung a perfect dive
a perfect day, a perfect lie.
A slowly crafted monologue
conceding your defeat.

Does it comfort you to know
you fought the good fight?
Basking in your victory,
hollow and alone
to boast your bitter
bragging rights
to anyone who'll listen.
While you're left with
nothing tangible to gain.