Man, the quill of GOD and still much less:
He is but a darting feather in some hand.
He is that tool which lies in great quanitity
Peering through the cracks of some ancient drawer
Waiting to be chosen or else lost forever more.

He waits in constant solitude with the multitude
Knowing some will be chosen, sharpened for great things
While others lie in wait forgotten and dull and uninspired;
For some were born into a darkness they cannot recall
And live in darkness — only darkness — and that is all.

And the chosen, they are taken whole and cut and tortured
Until fit to lift dreams upon their shoulers, turn rods into snakes,
And make the fate of others, perhaps even the world.
And dipped in sacred waters and inks they shall glaze
The sacred pages and do this for all their days.

And when at last the weight of this great task
Proves too much for a single quill, who then starts to crack,
Cast away is he and replaced with another quill,
And then another, and another, and another — lo
We are all GOD’s quills: chosen, cut, and cast away.


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