Colin F. Jones


Oh then which star am I
in the foreign sky
of another’s view.
Am I real there…
or a mere twinkle of
empty light.

Am I as unseen as they are,
in the light of day;
known to be there
but gone away
to an empty place
of loneliness.

Well I cringe here!
in this inside of me,
never and not with fear;
so imprisoned and free,
running from what
I do not like.

Rain leaps up from the roof
like my nerves.
Tis a singing agony
of sadness,
and I am strangled by
its persistence.

There is that harsh something
making me ill,
bilious, and tense,
angry… yes angry!
So angry
that tears well up in my throat
and run back to my heart.

Do you know of this pain?
Do you know of it?
Am I to compare it?
Am I to justify it?
Why is it that I am led there
every year…?

Why must I suffer so?