glory to arstotzka.

how much obedience
is too much obedience, how many
acts of subservience till it becomes a crime
i scream and cry for revolution in the safety of my room
but choose to turn away when it passes me by
i stay home when the protestors march and speak,
take routes where they do not find me
and there's really no such thing as being morally right
but I know I'm doing it wrong. im only
an activist within the depths of my covers and
never political when it really matters;
a friend of the state is an enemy of its people
and I've picked the wrong alliance
I'm complicit in my compliance.
weaving out these webs of silences and
labyrinths of diplomacy
to keep me safe from the sins of the ones that govern
these sins. that have now turned into a part of me.
this is the price of silence
this is the price of having so much to lose that we
forget everything we've already lost
this is the price of cowardice, and one day
there'll be nothing left to sacrifice.