Hellions civil cry

Soft fires overtake the trees when they walk. They scorch the lands and burn the animals that stumble in front of them. Their cruel hands abused by the very power that leaks from them. I've seen their arms marked by dead skin and discoloration, practically eaten by their own burns.

Everyone knows their suffering, but words of sympathy are not spoken for them. They are deemed as the born sinner's already condemned by the public. No one sheds a tear for them when their flames completely eat them...well not publicly, anyway. Whether they're young or old their sentence was sealed the moment they began to show their burns. No exceptions.

Families toss them like strays, for their cursed DNA are inadequate for a normal life. That government had once said after a while they won't be able to sustain a stable mind, for when their special energy leaks from their bodies, something loose within the core of their minds makes them nothing more than untrained animals.

"Isn't propaganda a beautiful thing."

That governments sits and watches the social madness of these people. Those people watch mothers drop to their knees begging and pleading with their God, to cure their precious gifts. They're glancing uninterested, at crying and whimpering boxes left out on curbs on trash day. They yawn, to children being beaten and tossed from schools by teachers and fellow students. Turning their heads, to police officers 'special' late night n' day target practice.

They see but can not see. They choose not to see. For they do not care to see.

That government is the people, don't you see them? They knock on your doors and give you pamphlets for their meetings. Those people shake your hand before they preach dehumanization to you, their congregation. While That government provides you, their holy bible. They take offerings in Burners' bloody bodies and tears.

"Let the church rise and praise our clean blood! Our clean hands! Our clean bodies!"

"Preach it!"

A Burner isn't of a certain race. They are just born random and hated randomly but nobody speaks that kind of blasphemy in Church. Can't have them, suspected you, right? You're not the born sinner, they preach about.

"Tell me how to fix it!”

Self-hate isn't easily cured. Rage and pain can't be stopped all at once. So, how do we heal?

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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