CRAYONS

The Hand...
It stays busy...
All forms must be filled...
An effulgent luster...
Going outside of the lines...
This is necessary...
The image must be unique...
From the feet to the hands...
The image must stand alone and hold its own...
For, no eyes can describe it...
The Hand has no eyes...
And without the effort...
The Moon leaves a stain on the Ocean...
In the brain of a lunatic...
No notion is indestructible...
Tis the Sun that sprouts wildflowers in his eyes...
Although the bees drink not his Nectar...
He desires no external food to shade his reality...
Brooding over his current project...
The child of the garden tunes to his channel...
His perception...
It goes outside of those allocated to the box...
And as he beautifully creates the Mother's smile...
He embraces the Hand that has no arm...
But indeed it has flesh...
Indeed it has blood...
A toast to the creation...
The child drinks the sweet water...
A poison to the logical...
For, it is inked with love...


doM