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Angel of Death

an angel of death came knocking at our doors

painting our own blood on the frames,

not for protection, this time,

but slaughter

thirsted for more, and couldn't get his fix in just one spot

so he followed a trail of spices

towards the smell of sweet love and home

which in his warped pallette

needed gunpowder and tears to balance the taste

and while the war-game pitter patter careened off the concrete

our weepings rose in minor-tone cadence to the heavens

across 1500 feet, years, characters,


how many times was a person wished

"May you be written in the book of life"

only to have god's hands forced to ink the Other Book

with a shaking stroke, through sob and gasp

by the blast of a weapon,

the caustic tongue of a screed

immortalized not through god's pen

but in a livestream, a deathstream

HaShem, just tell us:

Did the lead weigh them down?

Were they able to fly up in time to your gates before they closed?

Are they stuck circling the clouds, as our tears evaporate and wrap them in anguish?

Or, HaShem:

Did their wounds leave them light?

Did they make it through with time to spare?

Are they dancing with you now?

have they eaten? are they okay?

is the endless sunrise laced softly across their dew-drop skin?

are they free, God?

and will they ever have to look down,

to watch this all happen over again?


in memory of the Yom Kippur Halle Synagogue/Kebab Shop Shooting

ז״ל הי״ד בד״א

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