Colin F. Jones


Tis a tide that rises from the gut;
Bursts through each door though firmly shut,
Fills heart and lung then brain and head,
That normal thought is briefly dead.
It crawls along ones arms and legs,
To lay its cold and clammy eggs
That hatch out as the shaking dies,
As hideous bloodless murderous cries.
Then it departs while in the fray,
While we kill and slaughter; calmly slay,
And when the battle fire doth cease,
The tide ebbs slowly to decrease,
The cold, cold numbness of our hearts
Where the fear returns when hate departs.

Submitted for the April 2004 IWVPA Club Theme Project, “Fear