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Image for the poem The Dead Hand

The Dead Hand

A hand delivered from a foreign shore
Severed, in an antique box
A pen crushed in its stone grey grip
A harbinger of loss
An endless wait to be inspired
The faculties cursed and atrophied
The spark blinking with new and telling lines
Fades to black, a starless night
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She lifts the relic, parts her lips
Kisses the grey fingertips
She says to write, he can't refuse
No cold hand for his sacred Muse.
Written by crowfly
Published
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