behemoth shadowing enormous

 

pathos yawns,

and spritzers come out of the mouth-spread.

some call that the wisdom of reign,

distilled from its resourcefulness, 

yet seeking a beyond-dom.

no one really wants the canvass,

but many would want the warmth

from the handhold of the brush.

as if the sinew of breath was more profound

than the words, choke-hold spoken.

so, does splatter speak before it lands?

do blotches ever hold secrets untold?

if heartfelt had a hand skill

then touch would beholding to the answer.

can a soul yawn?

can an itch seek snow 

rather than a scratch?

can sweat wish itself into a tear life?

what if commentary was without breath?

if seething had a soul?

if immaculate was the all of substance

and otherwise commentary was dust seeking sacredness?

you are a hammock made out of stretch-marks.

maybe even a bloom wearing brightness to distract.

serrated, as a mindset, is swift bliss,

if one is the handhold of isness to it . . .