the next song

the aged rebel
is still at it, undefined,
uncaptured,
misunderstood.
how they want to rein
him in,
make him one of them,
at last,
by giving
him a medal.
he's quiet on it all.
smirking
in the last light
of day,
adorned by those he railed
about
for decades.
blue eyed and bent,
he stares into the crowd,
strumming
his guitar
making the next song.