Colin F. Jones

CHANCE

As an ant, a deer, and a fox,
From Mother Nature comes my mortal Seed,
And there returns in a wooden box,
Ensuring that her living creatures feed.
In all of this I’m equal to a tree,
And never more than what the river gives,
For just by chance I am really me,
For without birth no one really lives.
Where do those unborn people go,
Who quite by chance never came to be?
They cannot die as we can die you know,
And none of their dull eyes will ever see.
What would my brother or my son have been
If chance decided they would not be seen?