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has been outdated,

denounced and rescinded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.