A Poem

Do you believe in carrots?

Some where in the distance the sound of thunder rolls. The blaze of fire lights the sky and tremors of the earth awake the nation asleep for decades in a bliss of peace thought to last the ages. The beast at work once again to bring torment and grief to mothers of the lands. Our sons and daughters to be the sacrifice, a penance for our freedom a sacrament to the beast. The unloving carrying the banner, the godless wilding the sword, who would strike the unknowing in a cowardous attack. Their hopes of being rewarded by the beast a carrot touted by the devious a tactic used to keep the soil from reaching the hand of the more privileged and deserving.

Over a billion lost souls to the twisted faith. No love they have for one another. No remorse from even the mother least it be to please the beast. The show of tears not for the loss yet for the beast they’d give another. No love they have for son or daughter feed the beast feed the beast feed the beast.

If judgment comes ask yourself will the maker give the pleasure? Will there be bestowed the gifts the mortals promise, for the pain which they inflicted. Does the mother reward our bad behavior? Does the father scold the one who does the labor? Hate can blind and harden a heart. It kills all rational thought. The worst hate has others inflict the pain and watch while both mothers weep. That is the most sadistic view, the one not soiling the hand, not feeling the pain, not doing the labor. Who is the infidel I ask; this is the question for the honest thought. No mask can hide the answer, the answer is truly in your heart, they go to there maker knowing their fate. The Martyr is not the one who gives the life rather the one who has theirs taken! Only the living believes the carrot.

By: Harold Taffner

Ummm... your poem would probably carry more impact if you used a spell-checker once in a while.

Not that this is a bad peom, mind you, I'm just saying.

Big Mike