Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

How could I look upon a tiny child,
and view it as all bloody and defiled,
when it doth smile with such a pretty face,
and of all sin there isn’t any trace?
Should not all ugliness that my eyes have seen,
vanish with acknowledgment of this scene.
For would I not prefer a happier mind,
to that entombed in self-sorrow so confined,
that distorts with cynical thoughts inside my brain,
and urges me to always seek to blame,
with the words I speak which lack the rule of hope,
that should help myself and other folk to cope.
Sad and glad have the same self rhyme;
My choice is glad, almost every time.

~ 2 ~

Perhaps it is himself the soldier hates,
who as a veteran internally debates,
that who is better he who goes to war,
or he who chooses conflict to deplore.
Soldiers live to fight and to kill,
experience the highest human thrill.
But when the battle dies what is he then,
a tired Tiger restricted to his den?
What is left except to whine and moan,
or find a place to call his very own;
find someone to love other than himself,
and share his heart for hope and better health.
In the land he fought for, oft there is no place
for of the man he was there is not any trace