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
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.