Every fence a weapon to hold within, those
you wish to keep indoors, but pickets
in the upcoming riot
are stored in geometric lines like
the policies that crafty politicians use
to cling to padded thrones behind glass walled mausoleums.

Pull  a picket
race to the centre of town
join the jostling multitudes in jubilant echoes,
scream an avalanche of miseries
imposed on you by the Power.

Burn down the crystalline bridges
where the nameplates are polished everyday
and set the city on fire. Break the bones
of the oppressors and walk free
from the cages of calamity
into the free night-where waits for you
another cycle of power hungry predators
waiting to capture the conquests
you have so carefully crafted
in your backyard fence.

Fence  them in
or fence them out.

All you have, my brother
are the pickets that line
the boundary of your revolution.

Stay focused. Sharp Pointed.
Author Notes

The revolution continues starting from the backyard fence. There is no revolution complete with the oppressed running into a riot without a picket and pitch fork from his own home. These are the most potent symbols of change.

I will tackle burning tyres in my next poem!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.