Handled by grimy hands and filthy souls,
The graven image stares up
But what of this idol, who is it?
Allah, Jesu, or the I Am?

None of the above.

It is the letters that mark the holiest of lands.
Gates swing open,
Reveries and kings and lovers soar above a dried ink altar,
travel across crinkled pages,
and settle themselves firmly inside.

Dreams turned to ink,
and words turned to life.