The Caloused Hand

Let me tell you a story about a pen in a calloused hand. Word of the heart spilled across the page in its thick black ink that was made by another we has a sister and a brother just like you or me but my story started high in a tree about a young boy with no family. He writes he plays he wonders and dreams but is really no different from you or me. The words he writes flow just like any other but the difference is this boy has no sister and no brother, but no the words don’t flow just like any other these are special words, words that are written on the walls of your heart so that maybe they will better seep through. This boy knows more than me or you about what it’s like to be so close to a heart as to be able to see right through. These are words of love that touch the soul like a river touches the side of a mountain as it pours through with each wave of its water whispering words of lost love of the sea it left so long ago it barely remembers what it was like to carry schools of fish among its waves and to have whales leaping among its tides like a bird flying high among the clouds like a feather floating back and forth amongst the winds. He wrote of hate so strong as a bear is strong compared to a willow branch holding up a mountain strength enough to upheaval a city and toss it into the sea strong enough to end all misery. He wrote of evil that rose up out of the ground like a shadow of the world that swallowed cities whole, and extinguished even the greatest of loves only to be destroyed by an unsung hero not named by man nor seen. Only when he was left dry of all the words in him all thought all imagination did he climb down from his tall tree and confront humanity and walk out into the world and tried to act just like any other boy or girl but the problem was he wasn’t just like any other boy or girl but he still thought he might give it a whirl. Then he met a girl so much like him, with her brush that spilled upon the world lighting up its darkest corners giving color to even the drabbest of songs. Her brush stroked the canvas it chose like a rain drop strokes the face of the lost one as cool water drops from the sky, like the hand of a girl brushes her lover as she walks by. Her pictures upon the wall seemed to dig into your eyes as you looked at it they showed you the skies in all their blue, a blue none has ever seen before, a sky no eye has laid sight upon. They showed you true love as its burning flame and the deep shadow that it made, in all its true glory, in all its wonder. She painted battles so fiery and fierce as to strike fear down deep into your very core. She painted love so bright as to be blinded by its unabiding light shining from her canvas. Her pictures spoke loud and clear enough for all to hear in a way none ever had before; for all you need is eyes with to see her clear blue skies painted upon the floor; no knowledge of letters, no mind with to read. All you need was eyes with to see this miraculous young girl’s paintings, this girl with no family. This young boy and this young girl well they had all the world. All the world was before them but in separate paths for they could never be together and have what they have now. But they ignored the ravens of the night circling above their heads and bound themselves to one another and then the world split in two the skies filled up with storms for they were no longer two but now one.