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.