Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul. Sweet gift of the union, the magic of man, the budding reunion of Torah, a kiss on my forehead and hand. You take and you sing me, like psalms of the heavens, a child’s understanding, a deep heavy rhythm, incredible numbers, the wording, for glory like comfort when sleeping in the seal when you gently pass me by. Adonai-Nissi, a breath worth chanting, a ratable cleansing, a curse or a blessing, the words are written in autumn by my hand.
Whispers by autumn, like shadows of love, your gaze in my fallen hands, suddenly, that critique so old is commanded in shades of sapphire. Scores are summoned, who will understand, impulsivity, the wind of YHWH reeling like thunder in the cortex of my passion. Now my pen dances, and will not harbor what used to be me. You will not judge me like some forlorn spirit disgraced in this electrical fallen age, rather you consider me immortal, and my sin you consider equal in phenomenon to your compassion. My autumn saves me with vespers enchanted, and in my thought I write the wonder of you.
Whispers by autumn, beholden grace in syllables reserved for the nomenclature tangled in the wakes of angels. Sight well hidden now risen, born and elaborated, given to numbers and directions, measuring figuratively by given perspectives this new temple. That building of written psalm that Teit-Vav has considered constructed under autumn sight for me. What was silent, has disappeared, a phrase believed is written living, a word holy, committed deeper than any living memory. Now invade me, cast me to that place of living, and I will praise you in rhyme. Whispers by autumn, they rise and they go, no voices just writing and bearing a witness of the light that raises my soul. – דָּנִיֵּאל 03/07/2014