His hands can not be called just ordinary
His touch not described as common
But rather quite extraordinary
Unlike the hands of all men

The warmth begins amidst his palms
Covered with crevices and lines
His soul as old as parables or psalms
His mystique, just one of the signs

His fingers are slender and reach to touch
And mythology is renewed
For within them, a siren's song, as much
When felt, your heart is wooed

His gentle caresses that linger and languor
Cause a peaceful serenity
Leaving the flesh to beg and implore
Or to plead with certain affinity

His touch can be loving, often filled with desire
And yet, as it is also wielding
Not just the heat that comes with the fire
But the magic of healing, unyielding

His power isn't governed by physicality
Or temporary pleasure that recedes
But rather by the direct tranquility
That surpasses all your needs