Colin F. Jones


Where art thou in moments when thy muse,
Devours thy self oft to thy self abuse,
All inflamed with torrid thoughts amiss,
With normal functions given to remiss.
What conquers thee destroys thy armour plate
That all hollow boulders fall prey to this fate.
This invasion of thy inner self’s resort,
That jigsaws to a complicated sort.
Ah! Toxic was the beam that blurred thy sight,
That entered through thy pupils as false light,
To randomly disperse about thy frame,
To re-occur and re-occur again.
How does one kill a germ which lives in thee,
A prisoner in a jail where it is free?