Andrew Jones

To say I love you
and to actually mean it
are different things
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Memory you're always here tapping at my window
things of the past whether good or bad
you're always there to make me know
I'm not alone, whether a t-shirt or a smile
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In many and various ways
God spoke to our fathers by the prophets
but in these last days
He has spoken to us by His Son
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You are beautiful
that's what you want me to say?
you'd laugh in my face
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'Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden
and I will give you rest'
for you should know whose image you were made in
and at whose table you are guest
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The light shines in the darkness
and the darkness has not overcome it
so it is clear we must confess
who causes this light to be lit
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A vacant face filled with years of blank pages
A final chapter marked by the pain
of not being able to tell a story,
remember a grandchild,
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My master loved schedules, precision, exactness.
He hated the flexible fluidity of wine-stained, mule buyers

To shame them he ventured to vocative vocation
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The woods are lovely dark and deep,
But I have no ports and seventeen sheep,
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Tonight I will sleep
in the exact same bed
that once upon a time
I layed my more foolish head
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