Colin F. Jones


Beleaguered by spiteful warriors cloaked in pain,
like pack mules struggling through a harsh terrain,
the hoofs of torment trample through his brain,
yet they can’t ever reach the place of shame,
for which they search to unload all their wares,
in that pure sanctuary where he keeps his cares,
for those he loves whom with he always shares,
a gallant sentry who firm armour bares.
Each thought that oft escape from him as tears,
are yet but outlets for his doubts and fears,
built up in dreams and nightmares from long years,
where oft his deeper mind to thinking steers.
Are then our minds so subject to abuse…
beyond our control therefore of little use?