'' Dying Is Not That Dire '' Poem by Bri Mar

Whenever he calls,
They idolise in halls,
Or wherever they happen to be,
You hear their bawls,
While talking to walls,
But their deity they cannot see.

You mustn't deceive,
You've got to believe,
The saviour is on your side,
Are they naïve?
As whenever they grieve,
Their good lord tends to hide.

Each other they fight,
Who's wrong, who's right,
As their gods don't intervene,
Does he take flight,
Or is it spite,
That, I'd say is mean.

What is the truth,
Is that uncouth?
Demanding he be taken to task,
I'm not a sleuth,
But where's his booth,
Immediately they say, don't ask.

A heaven or hell,
Leaves a terrible smell,
In effect it is but a bribe,
Do pray tell,
Where will we dwell,
To which will you subscribe.

You cannot deny,
It's not a lie,
There are quite a few omissions,
To give either a try,
You first must die,
Just one of gods pre-conditions.

Guarantees, there's none,
You've lost or won,
It's a heaven or eternal fire,
This may stun,
If it's a tale being spun,

‘' Dying Is Not That Dire ‘'