Colin F. Jones

LAST THOUGHTS

Rust termites beneath the embattled paint
Crenulated by times abusive hammer;
And startled by a noise so faint,
He begins to sway and stammer.
A cool breeze cold across his face,
Ruffles his thin grey hair…
Of whom he was there’s little trace;
Confusion dancing everywhere
Its ok dad, I am here,
The one you thought of least,
The one who loves you most, I fear,
But now our friendship has increased,
Far too late! Oh! Far too late…
For now you are deceased.