Hands to Mouth

Blurred wind of tentacles

of rain trails streams

upon that dropped slate

of that merciless paint

that nips the gloveless hand

bespeckles the whim

herd lying with the tech

from splattered lands

to the fingerprint of stain

to run and fetch

where the Art connives

where the honest pain

isn't the dishonest bland ?

The soaring blame

the curve headless

always all

buried in sand