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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
Copyright ©
Julia Jaffee
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