The Writer's Right Hand

His ink bleeds,
Bleeds as fast as a wrist that's been slit,
I try to find the blots on his empty sheet, 
He keeps evolving as I watch him flee,
His right hand moves elegantly like waves in a fisherman's dream. Envy can't be a sin.
I observe, I observe with the eyes that looks down on the one that owns them but reflects the praise of the wizards, such a disloyal tool, playing blind to the magic of the host.
I follow the right hand like a stalker follows his out-of-league,
Do my fingers belong to the game he's mastering?
I can wait to find out but I cannot wait,
But my restless mind needs to be reminded that his fingers feared someone else's, and almost every human has fingers,
Eyes can lie, so can a finger, 
But ink cannot as long as it doesn't linger.
- Pranav Radee