Colin F. Jones

DREAMINGS

I will die and rot away to dust
To fertilise the grass above my head
Filled no more with anger and or lust
Just being what one is when one is dead
Millions before and after me to come
Piles and piles of rotting useless bones
No one will know where the hell I’ve gone
Or weather I am still beneath the stones
None know but hope there is another place
What else can one determine when alive
One can’t imagine dying without trace
So some conclusion we must then derive
Lest all we are and were becomes the shade
Where all our absent souls are not remade