Upon a hill did one man set;
If you were to set upon a hill, with the conjuring of time in the morning
mists, you would be presented of such a tell, that through out your day you
would wonder, taking a moments upon moment to ponder.
In the mists you would see a family of three, so prideful, so fierce; the
dew upon the ground would become the reflections of blood. Although I have not
met thee, I hate thee.
First to the killing fields were the wars are fought by men, would be the
sacking of Rome
When in your horror you go to take breath a pause, on they trot to Oden’s
fair fields, the Druids demise was but a lunch time play, as they snacked up
nectars of the islands so green. Alas Oden’s murder was entertainment for
these.
Off they have killed from the lands of Lions and onto the lands of Tigers,
they have magically drifted a crossed the Sea’s, where they met the Mother of
Trees, the Father of Sky, and they killed all of these.
The jealousy of the spoils of this war, has the streets of Jerusalem
Bills of this misty Blood soaked tell is paid for like all stories of
“Gods” on the shoulders and heads of the
Smithies, Farmers, The lives of You and Me, Our Fathers our Mothers, as will
our Sons and our Daughters.
Now as the mist clears, and you settle about your day think for one moment,
a few seconds of time, if that expense is one life, one child of thee and all
you had to do to save that child from the alter was not to believe. How ease
would come the responsible thing.
Alas I leave you this day with but a perception from me.
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