Death Camp

Dust & smoke stain the sky lines
Of people who must die.

Parade of death, a grim procession,
No Christian priest to take confession.

Only the night, the circles of pain,
The blood that falls like drops of rain.
Don't cry child, least you die in vain.
Death is a relief to end the pain.

Bodies stacked up like cords of wood,
Surrounded by a fence,
Perhaps man will say,
This doesn't make sense.

But hate is a thing that all men feel,
We can not deny all that is real!

For hate consuming power, greed
Justifying it to do whatever you need.

From the gates of the dead,
To the rivers of our pasts....

A BLOOD SOAKED RED!!