Colin F. Jones


~ 1 ~

So many who fain love with inner pain,
denying peace where peace should be lain,
seek achievement of the truth of life,
which reeks such havoc causing bitter strife.
Recorded History though Tis never true,
for it speaks not of me and not of you,
is scribed by tyrants and by brutal men,
whose ink is crimson on their bias pen.
Who are we in this endless passing time,
scribed not once upon historic line?
Just grains upon a beach of endless sand,
which once was sold as fruitful promised land;
and fought for with a greed to own it all,
lest to another it’s riches might befall.

~ 2 ~

A single soldier is one element in a team,
a train of numbers, a complex time machine,
an endless flowing conveyer of flesh and bone,
each segment useless if dispatched alone
yet lost among the masses of it’s type,
expendable yet demoralized in hype.
Patriotism a thought in some ones mind,
a pledge of suicide for something ill defined,
determines the abattoirs measured by their claims,
to things designed to camouflage their shames,
to ensure there’s something left when all is lost,
appointing reason to the wasteful cost,
of endless error stupidity and war,
by robots fought not knowing quite what for.

~ 3 ~

In the end the pawns used by the King,
the soldiers dead or dangling on a string,
uniformed with national pride and hope,
which helps none of them to progress nor to cope,
live with their pain and images of war,
not knowing how their lost lives to restore,
live in the ashes of the statues of themselves,
for all they had now useless overwhelms,
stagnant thoughts treading water in their minds,
where endless vanquish like clogged wheels grind.
Oh all was duty in their sacrifice performed,
to their own propaganda devotedly conformed.
So yet they think themselves better than their kind,
who have not left their real selves behind.

~ 4 ~

Then who can come to terms with such men,
malfunctioning with rusting skills in them,
who gave their all before they had it all to give,
who died a thousand deaths before they lived.
It is an alien world where no aliens are,
a conceited isolated stagnant self pitying star,
which twinkles dully in a bright blue sky,
where people live their lives until they die,
falsifying everything with cloaks of love,
like fading feathers on an aging dove.
For soldiers aren’t more special than a baby born,
or more important than a roses thorn,
just part of that which we call the whole,
distorted mass of humanistic soul.

~ 5 ~

The works of God each head each jumbled mind,
each fearful heart each soldier so defined,
Each one who goes who has agreed to kill,
each one who went and carried out his will;
and all of them who come back home to blame,
all those who sent them for their ill got shame,
Who make their way through life with deep regret,
while reaping all they can from being a vet.
God made them all with choice to do their deeds,
as they would want to join or from it freed,
be better men by standing up for right,
instead of conforming to the process of the fight,
that they in fear of being seen as what they are,
go into battle and die in a fruitless war