Your Ink Intends to Save You

Pages hewn from earthen humus

Beckon every pen’s master to heed


The 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


Aching 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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