The dream isn’t dead
but it is dormant.
Scratching at our insides,
with its nails sharp
like thorns on the stems of roses.
There is a machine on the line
consisting of a stencil mounted
on a piston that stamps
metals into their proper shapes.
We have become that, and now
it is becoming us.
We remember our grandparents
staring off into the distance,
all the whispered conversations
within yellow lamplight
while the crickets drowned out all
the secrets with their relentless song.
They knew that this was wrong.
The psychic killings of our
hopeful few.
The handcuffing of our teachers.
The vision of freedom fully realized,
still shining through it all
like a lighthouse
at the edge of a raging storm.
We erupt like wolverines
seeking vengeance
against the tide itself,
unafraid of standing in its shadow.
Securing long forsaken promises
by setting the jagged, cutting, waves on fire.

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