The jugular vase

The hand, is a gorgeous thing
It strokes each line, to the fore
Massages it’s oils through layers,

and often, it clears a melodrama,
often acted out in prose,
it’s continuous isms of ignoring the past’s work.

It is detrimental, to the power of an en passant, it circles its wants the way the clergyman plants his thoughts.
No two hands have the same relationship with the self,

Such as the relationship between nature and art, someone may connect, with prejudice and disassociation with the present.
It’s fiery dimples bury something meaner in the stomach.

It’s contemptuous glaze, a thick honey, a dollop coated seat, a viewfinder, or a spot of lunch, is the tea cozy of modern interpretation.