Pages hewn from earthen humus

Beckon every pen’s master to heed

 

The lofty words carved black on its skin.

Though you seek to transcend its simple

 

Humility, hear the sound of its whispering fingers

Reaching out to tether your soul to its

 

integral firmament of ink and dew. You draw

Back from its tightening grasp, perceiving

 

Slavery in its will, wrongly; it intends to save

You through binding not to itself but

 

to your own words haphazardly sewn. In the integrity of

Your own becoming, hear its kind octaves

 

And respond in kind lest your tongue’s

pen gives you over to reckless ambition and you

 

Lose yourself forever in a gnostic search.

 

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