Colin F. Jones
~ 1 ~
Into what thoughtless recess do I delve,
To pluck out angry thoughts from dirty shelves,
And cast them into sunlight from the shade,
Which hides the better substance from which I’m made?
From whence they come determines my regret,
For of their source I’ve not discovered yet,
That all this love this kindness I pursue,
Is hidden from the astonished questioning view.
Where from has this deep pain in me so crept
That leaves me helpless; baffled, and so inept.
Is it the punishment that a veteran reaps
That controls his spirit while inside he creeps
From thought to thought, afraid of what might be;
That the words he speaks are what people see?
Does not one seeing in another’s face,
The same ill pain that causes his disgrace,
React with ire to criticize himself,
By blaming him who shares the same ill health?
What gives him the right to suffer pain like you,
To grant his eye a knowing desperate view?
You cannot help him nor can he help you
So what, but criticize, is there left to do?
Sorry mate… I don’t understand your pain,
It’s yours alone to by yourself sustain,
For what you see in my dishevelled face,
Is but a mirror of your own lost grace.
For in this world I am the only one,
Who’ll weep for me until at last I’m gone.
©Copyright May 1, 2004 by Colin F. Jones