The Poet

Peace is coming. In the silences I hear it seep in from walls and caress our throats. Who watches, and becomes you? As the forgotten remember what their mirrors reflect. Poetry is when all the pieces align. This never ending self between us.

How do you articulate without bearing any soul

Death is always never now

Living in the hollows of us, without meeting

How hollow is this love of being loved

Watching you watching me

Is it not humanity in its most innocent guise?

Ancient city of HaShem

I weep when I see you

Ancient city of HaShem

You embrace me

You envelop me in your glory

Ancient city of HaShem

Her magic seeps in from the Kotels cracks

How do I lose my sense of self? To think I am just pieces of skin bound to a corpse. All these fleeing hopes and fears press onto my eyes until tears find their way out. Is this a gradual unraveling or am I lost without my angels?

Outside a cafe on Ben Yehuda

I saw a girl in her long skirt

her face so exquisite

my mind filled with envy

For all the things I did not know

Who watches all the melting faces? Who pretends and who lies?

If it’s not how I see me, it’s how you do.

We, who are far away from truth. And I can only speak for myself. A prayer in the night. This obsession with ancient walls and people who look like you. You are far from me. I see you everywhere.

A dangerous game in falling. The falling of three eyes and painted faces. Death to the mirrors. Tiny figures who press me into the walls-the space between them where I hide. I watch them paint over their melting faces and place their jewels.

I fear everything is falling. I cannot help but forget myself. Death to the mirror.

I see myself. Mind aching within the mirror. I think it goes away sometimes. Finds it wings and leaves me. And I am so lonely without it. I stand and all I see is the pain of loss of poetry. Yet that doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts as much as being without.

Our line is blurred from truth to falsity. I don’t understand which is me and which is you. I am abashed to say this love which seeps through walls and doors with locks is a mystery. I watch the shutters. They open and close and open. I invite you in. You lock me out. I watch you watching me. I see you barricade the doors. You are me.

It comes trickling and dancing from the places where we hide. I watch myself in the mirror as banishment overcomes me.

It shames me to realize all the wispy pieces of me that have fallen off. The gold bands and black creme smudged around the eyes. It all disintegrates. The one in the mirror. The only one. To write for me, for my subconscious to be released. This undoing of self, despite the hesitation. And not for another, or a legacy. For a love of self. Love strong as an armor, a shield, a barrier. Whatever keeps them out.