THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 10

It’s almost sexual, that sort of rush.
A meeting listens to you. Feel their hearts
your hand upon their strings. That’s how it starts.
You get addicted to that breathy hush

in meetings when you speak. Like good cocaine
it makes you briefly sharper than you are.
Words race round corners as you’d drive a car
hand brutal on the wheel. And it’s your brain

whose tyres you burn, but also it’s a cause.
That’s more important than soliloquys,
or disagreement sobbing on its knees.
It is the people’s struggle, and not yours

Beware of leading. Easy to enjoy
the ride. The revolution’s not your toy.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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