Colin F. Jones


Unto ourselves we pray,
Believing our own promises,
We cannot keep.
Pretending to be what we are not!

We die in battle,
Or sit at home and wait;
But we die.

Death is slow for some.
They grow old,
And tortured by time,
Pretend it rewarding.

But the dismantling of the tower,
Brick by brick,
Is the awful process of death.

The ball will keep on spinning,
Until it dies
and nothing is left.

Regardless of what you believe,
You will die,
According to circumstance,
Chance and reality.

At least soldiers die,
Thinking there is a purpose.
They die defending themselves,
Or attacking others.

They are expendable:
Destroying that which will be rebuilt,
That others may die.