My brother wrote a beautiful poem and I'd love some intelligent people to discuss it with, he's far too shy to put it up anywhere or show it to anyone but I think it deserves to be seen.
It's long but a very, very good read.
The right handed artist is a man of good will,
who draws when he sees that motion is still.
Colours and patterns come from the left hand,
but these are epiphinies exploding unplanned,
Like the flames of the sun burning the sand,
such is the effect of the right handed man.
The right handed artist has a pen made of matches,
the passion of his art burns the canvas to ashes.
These are not words that bleed from the heart,
it is indeed a portrait, of right handed art.
The right hand one reserves in order to eat,
the hand one extends in order to greet,
the hand which you give to the allies you meet,
the hand with which you pull to a hasty retreat.
The hand with which you incline from the edge,
the hand with which you offer your pledge.
These are not words that bleed from the heart,
it is indeed a portrait, of right handed art.
The right handed artist draws shapes of law and reason,
and draws the grim faces of evil demons,
who embrace evil men and work in cohesion,
and draws the frost of their hearts, remaining through seasons.
The right handed artist draws not pictures of splendour,
such as tides on a beach from a sunny adventure.
The right handed art removes verbal dementia,
and wages a war, on mental influenza.
Some left handed men are gifted with talents,
the pictures they draw make those gifts apparent.
first patterns, then detail and other creations,
but the right handed artist uses calculations.
To make it clear, if we had here, a venomous snake to draw,
Both right hand artist, and left hand artist, from different directions would awe.
While the left handed artist appreciates the charm,
the right handed artist brown townyses the harm.
Thus the left hand art is to appreciate,
while the right hand art is to alleviate.
Indeed this hand draws many things,
such as the ocean of success of repenting kings,
the mountains of servitute a servant brings,
remembrance on the fingers like diamond rings,
taken to the true throne by a creature with wings.
The right hand you use to point and pick,
of the good you were given whilst healthy or sick,
but yet you lust for more thus whimper and whine,
and raise your hands again for a heavenly sign,
the right hand you use to recieve and refine,
and recieve a bounty on with which you entwine,
with richness like the olives of Palestine,
the hand you may use to polish and shine,
from which the index finger points, to the most Divine.
These are not words that bleed from the heart,
it is indeed a portrait, of right handed art.
