an angel of death came knocking at our doors
painting our own blood on the frames,
not for protection, this time,
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?
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? are.they.free?
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