The Roses in the Tinted Glass

Let us deceive the 18th century;

turn scrap metal into jewels.

Set chicks free until man and

cockerel become indistinguishable.

Let them run hot headed until

mothers’ cries-

dire, drenched, desperate

of the working class

become our tocsin sound.

We won’t wilt because our mothers

have not known beyond; won’t sleep

because the only fathers we know

founded a broken system.

We are roses: radiant, ready, real, and rattled.

We are preserved in the resin of greed.

It is here where we embody the last of

our remains- the fuel of the attack.