Colin F. Jones

BATTLEFIELD BLISS

The same ceiling doth spread ‘neath the roofs of our rooms,
Where the sheeple all gather with their anchors and brooms,
Where even the raised portions where gather our Gods,
The same ingredients do germinate from the same helpless sods.
Where the inventors of time, the masters of slaves
Construct armies of soldiers and tools for their graves.
That freedom becomes the monument they serve,
A freedom controlled by the tyranny it conserves.
Our differences are totems erected in infantile minds,
That the shepherd’s ambitions with soldier’s defines;
When wisdom is lacking, but youth’s fire is ablaze,
Sacrificing their lives in the political haze…
While obscurely God watches from where ever He is…
Enjoying a moment of battlefield bliss.