Behold the hand that moves the sun,
Before the morning has begun.
This is no phantom, no hollow design,
But flesh and spirit, and blood that is mine.
I place my own palm on the cover you see,
To bridge the deep silence between you and me.
I wanted you close, to the heat of the spark,
That guides every hero through shadows and dark.
When you touch these pages, you're touching the soul,
Of a writer who fought to keep visions whole.
My fingers have traced every scar, every line,
To ensure that your heart is entangled with mine.
I chose not a weapon, a shield, or a crown,
To tear the high walls of the boredom down.
I chose the bare truth of the hand that I own,
To show you that no one is reading alone.
A personal promise, a physical sign,
That the worlds I have built are eternally thine.
The rings on my fingers are symbols of old,
Of stories and secrets that wait to be told.
They shimmer like stars in the palm of my hand,
As I lead you away to a mystical land.
Through the glass of the screen and the miles of the sea,
You feel the vibration of magic through me.
Each chapter I finish, each poem I write,
Is a reach through the void in the dead of the night.
I gave you this image so you'd understand,
The power that dwells in the "Sovereign Hand."
It's more than a picture, it's more than a grace,
It's a mirror reflecting your own inner space.
So follow the starlight, and follow the grip,
As through the dimensions we silently slip.
Stronger than fiction and bolder than art,
Is the hand of the author, held close to your heart.