Colin F. Jones
~ 1 ~
What thoughts are these that with myself debate;
Myself being thoughts my tutors would relate.
As what they taught me as a child to be,
Copying their thoughts and the images they see.
Where am I in this school of cloned obedient heads…?
Which one is mine in those long rows of beds,
Is their God mine they taught me to declare,
Or just their thoughts through my own thoughts I share.
Looking about I see nothing of what they state,
No heaven no Hell to which I might relate,
Except perhaps the vile consequence of war,
Though even there, ‘twas no Satan that I saw.
Nor did the God about whom my mind debates,
Mend wounds and pain in my dying mates.
~ 2 ~
It is in death where the withheld mystery lies,
Death is the hostage; for everybody dies,
And he who can manipulate the fear,
Can make a God that all good folk will cheer.
To be saved from death, first a man must die,
That from his nothing he’ll live beyond the eye,
Become a member of a tranquil world of Ghosts,
With merry Angels acting as their hosts.
Fear not death!! For dying means you’ll live,
So long as you obey; and give and give and give!!
But the tide doth ebb; not due to Satan’s rule,
Nor doth it rise to satisfy the fool…
But because it must lest there be no wide blue sea,
No hill nor wood; and no you and me.
©Copyright May 25, 2004 by Colin F. Jones