He stood holding a gun,
At the end, a bayonet,
He realized the swarm of iron clad horses,
And in the sky, bombarded by iron crosses,
A young man with no hope and no emotion,
Corrupted by blind devotion,
Just like the men he opposed,
Almost the same fascist rules he would propose.
"Freedom!" he cried as he handcuffed a child,
"Death to them all!" and the men all went wild.
I look at you now and I know what you've seen,
Something inside you is growing cold and mean.
Innocent fades from the people who crush it,
Kill the monster and you might become it,
Exiled like a redcoat,
Hated like a red,
Hung like a Nazi,
And kept under fed.
YOU ARE READING
This Lost Heathen
PoetryA poem in the form of a concept album based around an atheist named Christian In a devoutly religious town.
