The Masters Brush

Though masses yes seek
To grasp yea, quick the brush
The brush of the master
Lay shrouded to most
For it rests on the bottom
Veiled to the eye

Though eloquence of prose
Offers much to the eye
Ornamental empty
'Tis still simply a sty

For true eloquence tumbles
From table of heart
From the bottom of the bottom
Where no stairway lies

Write where your heart leads
In earnest record what you find
And the grip of the masters brush
Surely you'll find

For it hails not from mountaintops
Nor abreast meadows deep breath
Nor awaits in the might of sea
Nor cloud adrift
But inside yes thee

The beauty that jumps
As words awaken in soul
Is ushered from heart
Where few seldom wander or roam

'Tis found in bloodletting
In pools of mirth alike
Transcends what is seen
And supersedes what we know

'Tis found only resting
Upon breastplate of soul
Gold fare shall not seize it
Nor might of Kings hand

For it flows free in all
Yet known to few men
She rides not in lofty
Nor in elitist array
But walks in the lowly
In heart set array

Ah the masters brush
Unearthed by few
Yet unearthed just the same
Found by true broken
And those called by same name

Rodney Evan Bohen