There were in days before
Ink stained hands that treasured every word,
Their owner might abhor
These hands they dreamed of tongues that might be heard
Even by those who did deplore
The twists of graceful night
That sailed across the page
Or shone with blackened light
On screens that showed the age

These hands they knew ghosts
They moved despite the nerves
That sought to slow their boasts
And end their lettering's dexterous curves

The mind rebelled
The spirit quailed
But the heart compelled
Where flesh had surely failed.

And so the owner was forced to stare
So that before their desperate gaze
Their own ink-stained hands were lost in prayer
Twisting out melodic phrase.