Colin F. Jones
Only old men think of death,
and those who feel betrayed,
for life is seldom in our minds,
a vision true displayed.
We lean towards the kinder words
that raise our hope with lies;
that really cause in us absurds
wherein ones Spirit dies.
Life is seldom what they teach;
is never more than what we do,
oft confused by what they preach,
for not all they say is true.
Along paved paths we are led,
choice seldom is our own,
that we become conformably fed,
to become our tutor’s clone.
What are we then our fathers’ sons
Or men who aren’t ourselves,
who live to man our nations guns,
wherever duty dwells?
Do we believe that God provides,
the bullets and the shells,
that from the blood of those who die,
we clear the world of Hells?
Where did this freedom we proclaim,
to be our very own;
(That’s built on slaughter and bloodstain)
Where was its substance grown?
Did we not steal it every inch
from those who loved it too;
that now when mentioned we do flinch,
because we shame to know it’s true?
Is it really true that soldiers die;
that for freedom they all fall?
Or is it just a bloody lie,
………… that God loves us after all?
©Copyright June 16, 2003 by Colin F. Jones