A Heart for Holmes
Losing my way in a bookish maze,
On a purple summer evening,
I picked him up
To detect my way back to home.
Next morning, he walked into my room.
In bright daylight I saw,
He was a 6ft tall figure
With hawk like nose and grey eyes,
With dark hair and thin lips,
Quite impressive with a magnifying glass
And a cigar pipe.
Till then, I didn't know
Inverness Cape differed from Ulster or tweed.
Within moments, I was hypnotized.
This gentleman took me to 221B Baker Street.
His home was a rented apartment
He was sharing with Watson.
Nothing could escape his piercing glance.
Amazed, I asked, how he deduced.
I was indeed a novice in detective fiction.
He explained with an air of matter-of-factness,
" You see, deduction is an absolute science.
With practice, this art gets seeped into reflex.
You know, it is hard to prove
How two and two make four
Than it is to know."
Chemistry, sensational crime and anatomy
Had never left him at peace with
Literature, philosophy or astronomy.
Leisures were indulged in
Chemical reactions or playing violin.
His mind rebelled at stagnation.
His brain needed to be always engaged,
Be it intricate analysis or obscure cryptogram.
When disturbed by prolonged inactivity,
He would resort to cocaine or morphine.
He was precise but eccentric,
Abhorrent to emotions like love.
Only rationale appealed to him,
Though I can't deny his tender feeling for Watson.
Even indifferent to fame.
Effortlessly, he would let
The Scotland Yard take his due credit.
He was always at the pivot.
I stayed with him for a year.
He departed as coldly as he had sneaked in.
He was a man with superhuman traits,
Easy to fall in love with
But hard to love on.