Colin F. Jones

THERE COMETH EVERY END

Deficient to life is time,
yet dreams define the soul,
In a place of peace divine,
Where the spirit makes one whole.
And hope which changes naught,
Relieves the griever’s pain,
Like prayers that alter thought,
To make us feel humane.
Yet the seasons come and go,
And the flowers bloom and die,
And we reap the seeds we sow,
And laugh and love, and cry…
For there cometh every end
Where to we all descend.

©Copyright January 2, 2004 by Colin F. Jones