Jerusalem

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Jerusalem
 
Hearts fight hardness, mumble prayers
            to the angel stuffed theater of the air
                        a nurtured wound that sings of love
                                    and speaks of hate.
 
My head moves in the lower sky,
            my heart a creature crawling.
What hurts just hurts, it doesn’t sing,
            the hard’s too hard for spirits.
 
And the souls out seeking ether’s song
            will stalk and strain
                        for the distant voice beyond the city’s noise
                        the warbling wound
                                    that guilds the hate
            that echoes under the hollow hurt,
 
A wound with being.
A deity.
A psyche so battered, so bruised it sprouts a fuse
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