POEM: The Wailing Wall.

A peeping Tom,
dressed in the guilt of curiosity
Pretending to look anywhere else.
But as the rising sun fascinates,
My eyes are compelled to the light.

If I touch the wall
where fervent lips have pressed
Will the stone be glacial polished
By the erosion of their reverence
The current of human spirit passed?

I happened by in frivolity,
The tableau drew me in,
At odds with bazaar's clamouring trade
Their stillness resounding as a slap,
That caught and held my attention rapt.

Clad in oatmeal hues,
casual cover of intensity,
Their stance stretching every sinew,
To an intangible goal that brings relief,
In a plaintive wail from dry chords of men.

Their foreheads pressed
to warm stone, muttering,
A kiss wiped from fingers onto rock,
As pages, folded plump are pressed,
Into fissures that invite the confidence.

Heartfelt postscript
to God from Jerusalem,
Pressing palms that stay to draw
Upon the stone clad strength within,
Through the nerve-laden stretch of skin.

A peeping Tom
in fascination of events,
Intensity skirts imagination,
Fissures packed with whispered secrets,
A stone's throw from the bustling bazaar.