Jerusalem sub-terranea.

I imagined a world where nothing was holy
Where everything sacred was auctioned for gold
The money we had, was burned in a furnace
and we traded in tender untold.

Laid back in my unholy temple
I stared at my godless clouds
My fingertips strained, tracing shapes once familiar
my senses no longer allowed.

Oh how I wailed at that cavernous loss,
In my mosque of meaningless dreams
for the fabric of life that once was wound tight
unraveled and frayed at the seams.

Woe betide these ideas of mine
who thought they could ever roam free
Unfenced by faith they wandered the world
and found no worth for me.

What a fool I was to believe the lie
my grace would prove sufficient
at a loss I lifted my idling hands
to curse gods who seemed so indifferent.

I raised them high, as any soul would
hoping one might look on my face
and with fingertips poised towards the sky
the clouds they began to re-trace.

For in the black of the night, that curtain was torn,
on spotless floor the fabric lay
And I noticed it’s hems were damaged too
where the seams had begun to fray…

Holy land, not here outside of myself
Revelation fell within
But Jerusalem sub-terranea
Holy ground beneath my skin.