deepundergroundpoetry.com

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
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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.
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
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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.
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