there's blue smudges on the eastern wall

shaped like finger prints,

streaked down in sorrow-arcs,

curled around eachother like feathers on a wing

there's blue soft cover on my prayer book

noticeably fading off,

like how wind whisks away mountaintops,

just a bit each day, off to sea

there's a blue tint on my fingertips

sweat and softcover

mixed in fervent tfila

make a paintbrush of my skin

and a canvas of the wall

that i lean on when I can't stand

when I can't remember the words

when my body can't hold the yearning on its own

when i can't stand it anymore

there's blue smudges on the eastern wall

faint enough, you'll only notice if you look

prayers making a paintbrush of me


please etch them deep, before they wash them away

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