The Heart, the Hand

With shaking hand I write in dimmed light Strings of words robust burst and slip from my pen With a grave heart I write With a frail heart I forgive It mimicks the sound of life Of love and such things Such fragile things which tend to burn in the sunlight Things that are made all the more deceiving A heaviness that lasts That sticks to the ribs and heart now heavy That rewrites itself till mad Drawing circles around itself till silly It punctures and weens By elastic grip it clings Turning right what was once impossible, or so it seems In again, gone till forgotten completely I rise on unsteady feet Overseeing all that lies around me in heaps Careful now not to impose or create hostility For the hand is sensitive and unreasoning By strike of silent blow it extends More willing than most and less willing to forgive What's scribbled in haste and panic hard to comprehend Yet to the hand it stands on its own merit For hope it seeks- In the words it creates Like prayers from an incompetent though loving beast In braille it signs all of its messages plain For fear that I may shrink Become pale in its presence For its divine love I seek None other than that which the hand so frivilously speaks From sleep I awake To pages filled and marked Dressing myself in them As if talismans or some form of holy art To make me, to REmake and refashion me clean But never doing away completey as so I'll not forget the beginning With shaking hand I scribble unpredictably Lacking grace and intelligence and formality But this is all I know This pen and its speech What it feels and the depths from which the words come from These words, unlike any man, now standing up for me.