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Satanic Seed

Contributed by Franco on Wednesday, 22nd November 2017 @ 08:50:18 AM in AEST
Topic: StoryPoetry

Satanic Seed
with a gushing wind came drifting
this sinful satanic seed called hate,
rooted deep, only to grow
into a dark tendril that swallowed up
frail hearts with its firm entangling grip.

Bearing torches of hate marched men,
to annihilate the others of color,
faith and origin; while in bloodshed, thrived
evilly, this dark tendril, a thousand-fold.
Along came my birdy chum,
the Red-vented-bulbul, ironically perched
on a thorny twig; twitting aloud,
with his usual humor.

“O’ man O’ man…” He nagged;
“may it be white, black, brown, Imam,
or preacher of faith;
divisive supreme-commander or it be
fanatic primo minster, of the old world
will one day be buried in dirt,
beside the other he despised…

…Grass of time, shall cover your grave,
once so “Brave” turn to dust
that get blown by another
gushing wind into a heap of dirt…”
…Where children of tomorrow shall play,
sing Grace, and the anthem of LOVE!”

Copyright © Franco ... [ 2017-11-22 08:50:18]
(Date/Time posted on site)


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Re: Satanic Seed (User Rating: 1 )
by softerware on Friday, 24th November 2017 @ 01:35:20 AM AEST
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You make an interesting point. No matter what we do, good or bad, the earth will eventually survive over us and heal all the scars we have placed on the land. Love and Hate will both be buried in time.
Food for thought, from a thinking poet.

Re: Satanic Seed (User Rating: 1 )
by JamesStockdale on Friday, 24th November 2017 @ 08:13:26 AM AEST
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Excellent poem and very insightful!!!
Well done!

Re: Satanic Seed (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Friday, 24th November 2017 @ 10:29:14 PM AEST
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I think of anywhere and then of everywhere
I see children sing, their parents patience, the
joy they paint upon frail minds. O joy is not
some wealth to any end when the joy was there
already firsthand in the luckiest thing known that was ever shown and we are the Earth her songstress her infinitesimal her gown. Which color skin lights up
the night, which one holds onto her truest sacrifice.
Of all the terrible lies and of all the beautiful infinitesimal faces that cannot speak truth to so called power we meet. And our troubles may not amount to a hill of beans, yet coffee is a multi-billion dollar industry
and Columbia is a rich jewel of a land filled with brown skinned folk.

Where is the driver for all of that? Franco, I think you know. Keep writing!


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