Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

I killed him but I do not know quite why,
‘twas such a shock to see another die,
But after that it bothered me much less,
And I became immune to it I guess.
It seems so stupid quite insane at best,
Seeking to kill as a common quest,
Though most are maimed or lose an arm or leg,
Or just fall apart with horror to shake and beg.
We become so cold shut out the blood and gore,
Though some can’t turn to do it anymore.
It takes away all reason to want to dream,
And we never forget a buddy’s final scream.
‘Tis not a place for those who want to love,
For here the bird that flies is not a Dove.

~ 2 ~

‘Tis only flies and crows that live in Hell,
To feed on bodies rotting from the shell.
The shattered landscape tomorrow will be gone;
A different scene will greet my lovely son.
What are we then; What the Hell are we dear Lord
That we do this; wield the violent sword
More than love is strength borne in pure hate
Is this God’s will; our intended fate.
Was it then by the mixing of our tongues,
That changed our union into doing wrongs,
Or was it mans excuse to write such things,
To enrich the world with what wars’ plunder brings.
Those who direct it do so from a chart,
While those who fight it bleed from soul and heart.