My IED

Should I love my IED

That goes off so suddenly

Not hidden underneath,

But for all to openly see?

 

It’s a love-pain in reverse,

Seldom often under earth,

Hidden horrors underneath,

When strangers plant IEDs.

 

The victims are living canvases

At the hands of angry “terrorists”

Whose bleeding bleeds through

The paining of others,

 

But what about their mothers?

 

The seed that is planted in

Love, lust, joy or hope

Despite life contraries

And love of Jove;

Living succeeds not in killing

With IEDs but from those

That succeed their decaying faiths

And dying fathers.

 

Legs cut off from the knees

No noses, hands or feet,

Or perfectly intact

Brains forever in

A “new crazy” retreat.

 

But should I love my IED?

The one that created me

Placed as a seed

Underneath

In a womb

In hope

Or in lust,

Or, I wish, love;

 

But when daddy is an IED,

Where the pain is tucked

Underneath

Where the bomb is loved

From up above

Who then is the terrorist

To love?

Is it daddy, mommy,

Or thee?