Aligned In Faulted Hands

The tip of a brush is the finger of God Each stroke a creation Each movement a chance to bring beauty to an unaltered platform But when there is a crack in the pavement The hand of the maker no longer caress the cheek of the brush so daintily The lover is now the combatant And the hand begins to slither into a grip around the throat of its holy wand The field of flowers long grown out Is hoed time and again To arrange them in a perfect order That was faultless art before But the master washes distain upon the far gone creation The finger, now an outstretched palm of disaster And so begins the flood