Colin F. Jones

AS CRIMSON AS A ROSE

There is more ways than one to chop off a head,
And no battle is won by those who are dead,
Towards a dead end folly’s racing car speeds,
For death in the end is all that succeeds.
The wheel keeps turning running round in a ring,
That when it gets back it has not changed a thing,
Except to deepen the perpetual rut,
That from stone and granite and body-bone is cut.
Though the rivers of blood that to the sea waves ride,
Are cleansed at each ebb, there’s a rising new tide,
As vermilion as the previous and as red as the last,
And as crimson as a rose on a parliamentary mast.
Painted all white for its servants to view,
As a symbol of freedom that will never be true.