Colin F. Jones

THE WAY IT IS

Hate is the guardian of love; famine guards life.
War culls the flocks; hunger is a knife.
Religion is the escape rout; temporary power,
Until death, the real God, causes all life to cower.
A spinning wheel in time; a dog chasing its tail,
Perpetual motion that one-day must fail.
Emptiness, nothingness yet stark and real,
For existence, though negative, all living things feel.
Chemical elections determining thought,
Like feathers in treacle without reasoning caught.
Expendable soldiers, the political pawns,
Of the multi corporations’ unstoppable dawns,
That control all the sunsets and seasonal days,
While the master of mystery, with everyone plays