Colin F. Jones

THE WHEEL WITHOUT THE SPOKES

~ 1 ~

Deft as the breeze doth touch a gauzy wing
Of all that flies and flutters in the spring,
Oft in a rage it tempestuously destroys,
With violent breath the false caresses it employs.
Indeed the mountain, which starts with gentle slopes,
Provides the climber with more pleasant hopes,
Though sometimes that sweet smile disguises truth,
The defiant precipice supplying tragic proof.
We are not dismayed by that which lends us hope,
For we have learned that untruths help us cope.
Though expectant souls who count the days to spring,
Are victims of the dream where fools do cling
And find, in time, that winter’s frozen lakes,
Are summer’s lessons that warn of ill mistakes.

~ 2 ~

The land breeds all its fruits from death for life;
Some stuck with forks and some are cut with knife
And, while in death are boiled baked or stewed,
Or chopped to pieces, mixed or sometimes brewed.
Nothing alive can match its value dead
For blood is blood that from the flesh is shed
That feed the animals until in turn they die
Where the scraps of bones they fed from wasted lie.
Where do they go, the billions all consumed,
The thoughts they had in lonely brains marooned,
Growing as grass and leaves and specks of rust
From all the rotted debris turned to dust.
Where could they live in death and be of worth
Other than here on this revolving Earth.