I created a ball around orbits
Different points varied in heat
Also, by cold; on same region
I placed two folks, opposite sex
Same skin, same hairs and I was served…
But their children, explored the ball
And lost in touch of their parents
And that they thought on origin.
Each that settled on vary spots
Was changed by cold and toned by heat.
They all forgot the one language
Of peace, and love their parents spoke
And they called me different names.
As their roots changed, did their believes
Now my image has many names.
They oppress different linguist
They shove themselves for tradition
They fight themselves hurting sisters
Killing brothers all in my names
And the culture they even lost.
If they understood, that there is
A common link and origin
They would not fight, but who would learn
Or listen to my loud thunder cry
And feel my sorrow when it rains…
Even when I tell then, the blunt truth
On origin of tribes, and the strides
That brought about different skins,
Hairs, languages and religions
They will still call me a fake god.
Whereas I am still the creator
And they, the product of my hands
Who prefer to use my name but
Searching for me they throw me out
When they get close to finding me.
e-Paper Poetry of Vinx 
Well, you said it…on the way to finding God, we lose sight of humanity, that spark of God’s love for his creation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Gbam
LikeLike
Sound of a gavel eh?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Gbam, a sound of a dropped point that sank in the brain.
LikeLike
Cliches about supporting the troops are designed to distract from failed policies, policies promoted by powerful special interests that benefit from war, anything to steer the discussion way from the real reasons the war in Iraq will not end anytime soon. — Ron Paul
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well articulated by Ron Paul
LikeLike