This mans hands came already framed
He had hair so beautiful every lock had its own name
If I were blind the lines on his hands would have felt me a story
He carried me through this journey
He took me from 19 to 40
From disgrace to glory
From a nightmare to a bright morning
There is power in a touch
From the second he graced the room
I swear I felt his rush
There is power in a touch
It means nothing to you
But to me it meant much
So I ran home after the poetry slam and listened to the best of Kem
And naturally I wrote a poem about him
His hands were like magnets that rotated themselves on my blades
He was like a glade plug-in that lingers
Leaves imprints but never fades
It was his prolonged rhyme
And his clock like broken hand
But still made time against me
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