Colin F. Jones


Where do we go; is there a place
Where do we hide from our own face
No one behind, no one before,
A key that opens every door.
How far in looking do we see:
Why does this sadness live in me.
Gathered here inside my head,
Are all those soldiers lying dead,
Their battle cries their painful screams,
The fading light of their sweet dreams,
The wasted prayers the loss of hope,
The ever struggling will to cope.
What is left except to scribe
A living tribute to those who died?