Watching now; his sons and his daughters:
Desperate souls; led to the slaughter.
Where are the heroes?
Is there no shame?
Looking like pawns in a murderous game..
The cry of freedom; come on home:
Lambs to the slaughter;
pincers move..
Fleeing from a lion a bear met him; went into his house, and a serpent bit him.
Now, I am not that clever, did I hear someone say?
Your doing a good job, helps on its way..
Religious freedom has ruined the best..
Could it work in reverse? Which lands could it bless?
It's good to believe; keep one eye open; the enemy is cunning: their light is slowing.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire:
Wagons are circling; stakes getting higher:
I heard the second beast say, Come and see.
Mourn for the children; bring in the wailing women
Vengeance in grief is a powerful weapon:
Just another arrow, in his quiver. His weapons are cooked, he will stand, and deliver.
To every creature his due, for the act's, and their doings, and for who knows you...
The innocent rest; it is his desire, to repair at all cost, what was lost.
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Author:
Valiantstar (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 18th, 2026 07:44
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
Metaphor after metaphor this poem delivers its message. With rhyme and good flow it makes its point in the last line
Valiantstar, reading this stirred that familiar unease of watching belief, power, and fear collide in real time. The way you layer warning and grief feels honest, not theatrical. I felt the weight of that. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you, it's heavy.
For sure! You're welcome!
A grim, relentless vision, raw and unflinching—each line strikes like a blade through sorrow and witness.
You weave fury and mercy together, gritty and heartfelt, leaving the reader both haunted and awed.
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