The Discordant Drummer Boycotts the March

In the heart of the protest, where spirits should soar,
The drummer stands silent, no rhythm to implore.
“I refuse to march in this broken parade,
Where order masks chaos, and truths start to fade.”

Without the beat, we wander in sporadic syncopation —
Eris cackles at the discord, her wild celebration.
The once-unified pulse now falters and stumbles,
As picketers step on each other’s toes,
Their chants turning muddled, their fervor now crumbles.

A sea of signs, but the message feels stale,
Tokenism dances in the margins, a frail.
The band leader’s furious, his baton in the air,
“I traded my drumsticks for a megaphone,
Now silence reigns here, and the order feels bare.”

With each step unsteady, the march loses its heart,
As the absence of rhythm tears the routine apart.
For one small act of refusal disrupts the grand scene,
Reminding the masses of the spaces between.

Oh, how the formalities stifle the flame,
As we chant in disarray, yet refuse to feel shame.
In this chaotic refusal, a spark starts to glow,
For in the absence of order, true power can grow.