Let us sleep
like the staircase
that once led up to the Temple Mount
no longer able to carry pious feet to prayer,
but the well experienced cracks
over which they once walked
expose the heavy burden
of well worn memories
under which we now slumber.

Sunrise from Masada.
The view from the casemate wall
of Silva's camp below.
Shadowy ghosts
are cast and scattered
and given voice as the wind
shouts through the buildings ruins
L'-he-rut Zi-yon
and there is no reply.
Only the songs of the Tristramit
who mimic the voices
of every child martyred here, singing:
*Shalom al Ziyon, Shalom al Ziyon"
and there is no reply,
only the dreams of the interrupted
and the disturbed peace
of excavated ruins.

a false clay mask
covers clenched faces
hoping the edges wont break
held together by the cracks
of the bitten lips
a single drop of pain
reignite the agony
for silent it wont remain
behind the quiet yet heavy
mind full of deep confusion
black clouds of frustration
overlaps the screams of the
crying heart

Pots with feelings littered here
Some with courage, others fear
The day we know will draw so near...
But death is certain, crystal clear.

Pots with cracks will herd their steer,
And, from the cracks, eyes peek and peer
The un-chipped *** just cannot see
Through imperfection, we find beauty.

You are the
        window
              to my pain
  Cloudy with
            no chance of clarity
      I can see
               how far
away you are
                    Out of focus,
           still hurting me
                      *so easily

tile covers the floor and the wall and the ceiling
it sends my head spinning.
glorious white has faded to decaying yellow
cracks and grime populate this darkness.
a damp chill settles in the air
only broken up by the occasional subway train
out of the vacuum of the tunnels.
fast food wrappers covered in lipstick stains tumble in the wake of passing crowds,
the only testament to the world up above.
it's quite possible to believe that
nothing exists
besides these miles of tunnels
and endless rows of splintered tiles.
from the depths within
demonic sounds terrorize
and with the red lights that draw ever closer
right on schedule,
it's not hard to believe the veil is thinner here
in this never-resting place
and an energy surge
or the blink of an eye
could turn these diluted colors
to black and red and white
with no way back up to the city streets you once thought you knew

When a heart shatters
And you glue it back together
Piece by piece
It will never be the same
No matter how hard you try
Visible cracks are left behind

The cracks in my skin reveal the truth.
The reality that I'm breaking.
My whole being is destroyed slowly
to leave the remains of nothing,
nothing left but a broken shell.

The hollow shell of an empty human.
A forgotten soul neglected in the corners of a dark room.
Left to gather dust and anything possible
to have some sort of value,
to find purpose.

My skin breaks away from me like it never belonged.
Cell by cell my meaning is lost
and that all is left is bones for dead.

But until I get to that point my skin will crack,
and will continue to crack until I'm gone.

In the time you were gone, I found myself filled with extra space. Nothing too obvious; not gaping holes in my stomach, nor chunks from my arm. Rather, they were minute cracks that ensnared me. These unwanted holes appeared at random; when someone spoke of sandwiches, I felt a soft ***** in the back of my mind. When I encountered a full moon, I felt a throb in the tips of my fingers. And sometimes, when I caught sight of a dollar bill, a pang of nostalgia bit me somewhere deep down in my chest. This discomfort never lasted long. These cracks never formed one excruciating pain – the kind that fully consumes, but diminishes over time like a large hole in a wall that will soon be filled in. These cracks I felt, this empty space, it affected me demurely. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. My disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come, but rather, spread out to different locations, as I patched and filled along the way. My foundation as a person grew perpetually flawed, yet remained stable enough to stay upright. My eventual remedy was to simply remember this; I am a structure made of concrete. Wear me down, and all you get is more concrete. In this way, it was okay that you were gone. In this way, I discovered the weight of time and also, the art of saying goodbye.

Just a slip, a little trip, a lurch, maybe hit the lip, a stumble, a dip, the realization that that gravity's waiting for us to succumb to the drop. Then comes the fall, once and for all. The embrace of waitlessness, tumbling and turning, careening and cursing. the terror, the shift, the dark, the bliss. But all for not, for nobodies tripped, it was all on your head, you just had an anxious fit. So slow your breathing, calm your mind, get it together and get back in line.