Colin F. Jones

THE TIDE

Where all dictators reign there will be war,
For those oppressed will never lose their will,
It is a perpetual everlasting sore
That a million murderers will not ever kill.
As grass doth rise on the un-mown lawn,
Each complacent lapse will turn a spark to flame,
Realms will wither like germ infested corn,
And thousands die to resurrect their name
Those who taint their fingers with their blood,
Shall find their deeds doth taint their very own,
For though they interfere for the good,
The stain will seep through skin into their bone.
Though war creates the tools of future time,
Such progress is the ghost of its decline.