At The Gate Poem by Paul Christopher Robertson

Pitch and fork in hand
His bloody trail
Scarred upon the land
His complex mind tries but fails to understand
The drum beats
He sails to foreign lands
Pitch and fork in hand
Leaving none to stand
Destruction his final command
Blood tickles from his hands
He fails to understand
He’s a boy yet a man
He’s dead but yet a living man
In this free world
Blood on its hand
As history it rewrites
An honest fight
Salvation lost within the mosque
The blood it washes
From its cold undead hands
Adds more time
The clock ticks
But it means nothing
All is lost
But we can just steal it back
Laugh at the table
We’ll have to grovel at the gate
It’s too late