Desert Son

He was killed for the illusion of freedom,
called a hero for being shot in the back
when he wasn't looking
By his own country.
It is not a defense
That reaches its greedy hands out
And plucks a man from his home
To be killed by those
That don't want him there,
And of them,
or maybe even by
His own men.

Our religious harlots are not the same as theirs,
Perhaps not as bad even, 
Here they only hold distasteful,
Shameful signs
At the funerals with flags 
over coffins
over lies,
The men they were supposed to love.
They speak daggers at us,
At anyone who is not a perfect mirror.
Usually
Their arms race is dealt in words,
like poets,
but lacking both grace
and character.
That is here.

In a desert where an oasis 
Red with blood
Washes the intellect out and
can help no one
Some find solace in
Ripping apart schools
With gunpowder treason 
and plot
how to tear down another
Couple sky scrapers.

Here they are called insane
and evil.
But we are the same
to them.
And think,

With these "first world problems"
and pet palaces
and peeves
and ice cream,
worried about supplements
and SUVs, crying
over people who
Don't exist. 
We hunt 
only for convenient parking, 
Heaven forbid
We are made to walk. 
Hell dictates
We do. We are all
insane. We are all
evil

As well as good,
some more than others
some less.

We are all the same.