HIS HANDS PART 2 (POETRY)

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