fragmented faith prevails
as men of cloth clutch their holy books
with fires and passion born of fever unexplained
chanting verses, raising voices
they speak of vengeance
and the fires of hell
they speak of colors of life
some so bright, blinding the congregation
in this spite does every man leave
the seeds of hatred sowed
in this spite does he pick the sword
to chop another head
spilling blood, seeking vengeance
and his son watches on
and cradles the very sword
to grow up like his father
another son watches,
his fathers body desecrated
tears in eyes,
unable to comprehend the violence
he picks up the sword
to kill the man who killed his creator
and so the story goes....
in the church/mosque/temple
holy men pray for the souls of the dead
delivering safely into gods hand
where would these vulture be
had it not been for you and me?
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