Colin F. Jones

THIS LIFE

All is contained inside a single word
That fleetingly flies by us like a bird;
Riding on time the mysterious unseen wind,
Shaking the leaves where our nests are pinned.
A single word; a nothingness lost in time,
Yet so much is there all contained inside.
Life is a waste, a perpetual primitive plane
Meant to prepare us for a greater gain;
A stile to help us climb the first low fence
Into the meadow beyond this awful consequence.
For wisdom waits for we do not have it now
For folly is the furrow of our uncertain plough.
Thus we must wait until the clouds are low
Before the Sun beyond, doth reveal its magic glow.