Colin F. Jones


The pull-through cleans
death from the lens,
but leaves invisible blood
on the hands.
One could have worn
a politician’s gloves,
Or a General’s conscience;
And survived!
Or read a Mother’s plans,
That none died.

But we didn’t!

I was a stitch in a green carpet:
Alone among thousands,
But there was only me.

Without me,
There was no carpet!

A river always spills over,
Before reaching the highest levy.
It’s too late then,
To complain…
It recedes… leaving death,
None being a General.

We throw cups of water,
Into the Ocean
But there is no flood.
It alters not the motion,
Even if it could.

It is all pointless.
One day I may be dug up,
And thought,
To be a King.

They will pretend to treat me gently,
But they won’t really care.
Those who did,
Are dead.

Nothing is safe from man,
Not even himself;
And some will think,
It is all to do with God!

What God?

There is only the one,
Formed in the superstitious mind,
The vain mind,
The self elevating mind,
Of those who cannot,
Defeat death.

What a helpless frail remnant,
Of time, man is.
Fearing fear.

In all that we do we think,
We have chosen heaven!
The ultimate selfishness,
Feeling the guilt of being normal,
Disorientated by the doctrines,
Of the ancient men,
We dig up finding our former selves.

So frail; hopelessly unknowing;
We cull the flocks,
Guided by the system of nature,
And denying the truth,
We pray.