This Passover

You tell me to look outside me this Passover, to actualize an infinite need. It seems strange, you asking me for holiness, for blessing a harvest, you of oneness, the lock of my key. A fable inside me that sparks an old story that terminates spirit if I don’t believe, a deathly hollows of blood for your glory of ransomed sinners sowed from death’s seed. You quietly whisper don’t look on that angel, that left hand of judgment that floats by your door, wait until morning to build love an altar, deliver your kindness, compassion in deeds.

You tell me to look outside me this Passover, enter a chamber that feels like a storm. In whispers of moonlight, craft of your measure, Hashem how you beg me to let you control. You built me from nothing, in thoughts of first labor, molded my lips from where angels cry. That kindness you left me to pass on forever, a definite wisdom, not held in a lie, an ember of softness that glows on forever, Tiferet Yisrael that screams when I cry. Blessing ingenious from light on forever, dealt on endeavor where destiny lies. No longer forgiven, free now forever one G-d of my story, no longer to die.

You tell me to look outside me this Passover, to swear my allegiance in scarlet laid skies. Adonai I bless you I stand now before you, and gasp at the reason you breathe through my life. The words of old scars are taken from me, incandescently you cherish me, and sing a lullaby for me to repeat. Ruach ha-kodesh you have learned to tear out my heart and I do not bleed, in the scheme of things you have dealt me the reason for why I must learn to fly. You tell me to look outside me this Passover, something loved, something new, and in this puzzle in this confusing rhyme, I find your one light. – דָּנִיֵּאל 03/29/2014