Friday, July 6, 2007

On your Hand, John Keats

With reluctant quill of singular logic,
Dipped in well of saber will,
You stroke up curves of blue-black ink,
That fling open a fettered thrill.

Steadfast hand of swerving whorls,
Cautious gaps and slashes bowed,
With critical glee I do peruse,
Angular folded sodden prose.

A dragging sense of betrayal,
Feigned fire, dislike and doubt,
Do expose and surpass the gaudy seam,
Of your insipid love prose.

But on further descending ivory page,
Form stretches long,
To sweep away all reticence,
And reveals to me sincerity uniform.

In this fair bit of writing,
You display flamboyant ease,
An alluring work of rugged grace,
That holds for me nay compare.

For this magic symmetry,
razes through realm of cognition,
And instils a future bright,
With a sheltered well-being.

Hand so plain, yet so rare,
Tarrying long at every vowel,
To me,signifies security,
And an unwritten commitment.

Minute clumps of smudgy fare,
From level to level do appear,
I smile and feel ever so sheepish,
As they beckon from ivory lair.

A balanced play of word and rhyme,
Enthralls me, and lends comfort,
Forever I shall keep this scrap,
It has awakened my prophetic skill.

To the creator of this rotund piece,
This piece of feeling, broken prose,
I bind my heart and faculty,
And common goals I do endorse.

To the author of this hand I adhere,
Give him my dedication dear,
He has roused my dormant fervour,
And awakened a quiescent rebel in me.

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