Prose - To The War Go The Poor
Once the decision is made
A baby will cry
There is no just war
For innocent people who die
There are no heroes
For the poor
Only the spread of terror
From door to door
Always by someone
Of their own kind
Because the rich
Stay back behind
Ready to divide
The spoils
Amongst themselves
While their God recoils
In shame and horror
As his name
Has been used
Once again
To justify
Killing and stealing
Even though a burning bush
Compelled the kneeling
Of one man
Who feared not
To seek God’s counsel
As his own flesh forgot
Why they were joined
As a chosen people
To be saved from themselves
Yet they destroyed the temple
Of their own church
And instead masqueraded
With their own idea of him
Lest others paraded
In protest
Over hypocrisy
That shamed
The legacy
Of the good book
And the broken cheek
Which only guides
The weak
In their quest
For meaning
While the powerful
With seeming
Indifference
To anything
But mammon
And scheming
Further
As they laugh
At those who actually believe
In a son wet from a bath
Of humble
Obedience
To his father
While expedience
Guides their way
Through the dreams
Of the hopeless
Where no light gleams
On a flag
On freedom
On justice
On God’s kingdom
All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2011. The Suburban Poet
(PRINTED)
