Moonlight thin as a sigh filled the eyes of Alabaster white on bone, his eyes gleamed like a knife, his lips moved; I swear they did.
Alabaster stood in silent light, carven face pale as the misted moon shining o’er the white’d moor.
In Valencia, I said, I kneel at the hidden shrine.
Moonlight thin as a sigh filled the eyes of Alabaster white on bone, his eyes gleamed like a knife, his lips moved; I swear they did.
The frosted moon glowed like a lamp, the ambience hushed and still; his lips moved, I swear they did.
I prayed then to the rosy god of the empty road leading o’er the white’d moor. A sudden bell tolled the hour though I know not where. Carven Alabaster made flesh, his lips moved, I swear they did.
In the hush of the empty white’d heath Alabaster said, “You made of me a mystery and a secret, you whisper my name in the gloom. I am not a mystery.” Alabaster said, “I am not a secret in your soul. Lift me up” Alabaster cried, “and prayer me home.”
Alabaster made flesh echoed, “Prayer me home.” His lips moved, I swear they did.
Alabaster stood cold, hard and white in the haunted sepulchral night.
His lips moved I swear they did, his voice rang like a bell in the tomb.
Intuitively, I know I've lived many lifetimes, and none more interesting than the one I'm living now. However, being born an old soul somehow did not excuse me from the same job I share with you and that is learning to craft a positive attitude about
Poetry. Various urgent, lively, and sometimes haunting poems appear here alongside stark black and white photos of Jones' homeless subjects. Jones takes on the plight of the homeless in different voices, echoing the thoughts of people on the streets,
