Colin F. Jones

IF ALL WE ARE

If all we are is flesh and blood,
Like statues carved from living wood,
In fact like trees that still resist,
Despite strong winds that ere persist,
Not knowing how to build a hide,
With a sheltered fire ablaze inside,
Preserving life by using time,
To wait for the tempest to decline.
Then we are painted all the same,
With robot eyes and feeble brain,
Grazing with the butcher’s herd,
Where free flies high the little bird,
That has the sense to build a nest,
Where with its loved ones it can rest.