Colin F. Jones


In the debris of the jungles humid writhe,
His brown stained bones refuge for the meek,
Rot slowly in the dampness where survive,
The hungry fungus that such food-stuffs seek.
The bones all dead still serve to nourish life,
As they did, when clothed in human skin,
As they did, when she was his good wife,
Awaiting word… awaiting word of him,
Who perished in the jungles squirming waste,
From a bullet taking pieces from his skull,
Taking from his body with great haste,
All life and function of which it had been full.
And for their lifetimes those who loved him cry,
Because they do not know that he has died.