Colin F. Jones


In silence his spectres importunate
Confessing his deep damaged state
But his propitiation so ravished by sacrifice,
Did never, his angers, abate.
With his demons ever so loyal
To the Satan of desperate fate,
He burnt out his mortal coil
To seek out the golden gate!
But ah! There’s a trail of sadness;
Tears flow in streams of despair.
Gone is all hope of gladness
And anguish grows everywhere.
For those whom he left mistrusted
Have only his memory to share.

And one will never recover,
But will not contemplate losing her life,
For she must now live for her lover
And endure his left behind strife.
She will weep every night in sorrow
And struggle each day with the load,
But she will continue on to the morrow
With the burden she cannot unload.
So, by one unwilling to suffer
Others must suffer these ills in his stead,
For they care not for self but for others
And still love them, though they are dead
Such is the love, of sweethearts and brothers
Who have memories firm fixed in their head.