His fingers play words like strings
And when his scribing sings
It’s like a siren on the rocks,
And every comma shocks
Me to the core –
The perfection inspires awe,
The constructions are a pure
Testament to his genius
He is the nemesis of Aesclepius
The feelings inflicted can never heal,
And each syllable is so real –
Like black magic cast on a page –
A page, a sage, a gauge,
Letters to shape an age,
Subtlety that needs no cage
Already executing perfect restraint
In a divine refrain
That leaves echoes of sensations on your soul –
Fragments that plant themselves and grow,
Images that fall and tickle your existence like snow –
Belief is frozen
Suspended and broken,
Taken somewhere else
As you crave shelf after shelf –
The untapped mine
Of a golden mind –
Sublime, divine, eternal prime.
‘Does it make it ghastly to read?’ he asked:
How could I even word the unsurpassed
Of what I had read?
The pinnacle of lyrical pleasure inside my head?
And he plays words like strings with his fingers,
And the echo of fascination lingers and lingers.
All words and images (c) of original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015.