Sad thoughts at the dead of night…

Deep lines ploughed his dark furrowed brow
He was lost in his world full of sorrow
For try as he might to shake off such thoughts
He was plagued by thoughts of a sad tomorrow.

It had been such a long, long time
Since he’d held his pen to write
So much happiness had deserted him
Though still he sits there at dead of night.

There was a kind of happiness
But it was so muted somehow
A laugh, restrained, and quieter
They get by, though sometimes, how?

And yet his mind could never rest
So much he still wanted to say
But now, again, seemed not the time
He’d wait, perhaps another day.

He carefully closed his writing book
And put down his fountain pen
He wiped away a single tear
While inside his heart felt broken again.

©Joe Wilson – Sad thoughts at the dead of night…2018

Children seem less important than guns sometimes…


And in our claim of love for life
What place the guns that kill
The guns that seem to never still
That take the child or innocent wife.
Children now left to scavenge
Surviving by their wits
No longer to live in joy or love
Who may grow wanting revenge.
Their innocence was blown away
By the bombs of a pointless war
They may well turn to violence
And bear the gun themselves one day.

And what does it prove
That one country
Can out-bomb another.
That in the blink of an eye
Someone can lose their brother
Their home, their family, their world.

A much loved dog lies dead
Killed by the shrapnel
That killed the little girl
Who was throwing it a ball.
Neither will now grow strong or tall
Amongst the rubble
Children fall.

While politicians in comfortable chairs
Decide their fate without such cares.

©Joe Wilson – Children seem less important than guns sometimes…2018