Colin F. Jones

IT MATTERS NOT

Alive! Now dead for he is shot!
So quick – so final! Now to rot…
And all the maggots of the flies,
Feed from him where his body lies.
Humming; that fucking humming sound,
Around that decaying patch of ground…
And the rain, the rain keeps pouring still,
To wash his blood into the hill…
A fallen tree that oozes sap…
An empty face in my wet lap…
As round and round the blue Earth spins,
Despite our pain and pointless sins…
For it matters not that he is dead,
Nor that he lives here in my head.