In Jerusalem

In Jerusalem

I became paint on the wall


for the moans of men dying for god.

In Jerusalem

I beckoned


one inch

before the other

across the stone walls

where in

I can feel the history at my fingertips.

In Jerusalem

I am a stranger


in this new world

where my face was not my own

and my voice became

no more then verses.

In Jerusalem

I went days without speaking

my echo


in my eyes

for all dying men to look upon.

In Jerusalem

I prayed;

my prayers

only thoughts

each image

held a face

and each face

held a forgotten kiss on my lips


of loss that

I wore

like a cloak,

the fabric

containing me for years...

All the years of my life


in Jerusalem.

In Jerusalem

I saw god

in all of his stature

a man

hand painted

with golden limbs

who kissed my forehead gently

like my grandfather used to

before I feel asleep

to dream great dreams in Jerusalem.

In Jerusalem

I saw the red

that lays tinted

underneath the sand

and my hands in the dirt

a smudge on my cheek

eyes closed

I swore that I could feel them.

In Jerusalem

I bent down

the empty space

easily filled

by this commotion inside of me




between my veins.

In Jerusalem

I saw god

but with him

I saw

all that he has killed.