grotesque, gnarled hands

You can tell a soul-searcher from a poet by handing each of them a single flower. Nothing changes with the soul-searcher, but when you place a flower in the grotesque, gnarled hands of a poet, something snaps into focus; a shiver runs up your spine and a miracle of recognition takes place. Every poet is a Quasimodo, swinging from the spirals of isolation to snatch beauty from the arms of some flash-in-the-pan prince.

How I Became King of the Mimeo Revolution, by John Bennett