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 . . .
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