Colin F. Jones


A bath of oil,
A skinless shape
From lifeless bodies,
Blankets drape.
Purple welts,
And ragged sutures,
Ether smelt,
On stolen futures.
Someone screaming,
Someone dead,
All this dreaming
In my head.
The devils laity,
Gathered bleeding
Round my bed cloth
Grimly feeding
What they give me,
Helps to free me,
From these moments
Of pure dread.
Now I lie here
Gently snoozing
No longer wishing
I was dead.