Toasted to intelligence-
The urge to comment.
To lay the streak of judgement
On any surface anew.

To scratch the face of a nubile maiden
To scar deep, a wizened countenance-
The point is not the purpose of such defacing
But the question of leaving my mark on it.

Can’t a cloudless sky remain without a puff of sooty smoke?
Through a grey filter we see it, when the real sky is far beyond.
Why touch everything when the essence if that touch
Is to defile and neither to heal, nor to reveal?

Has the mind thought of sparing the surfaces
Has the mind stopped to look at those fingers?
Because it is dirty fingers
That leave the worst marks.