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.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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