I
Oh Lord, I am your quill.
Feathered arms and sharpened, sticky, ink-feet.
I move not on my own-
I draw and am drawn by your hand.
Make yourself known, you beast above.
Push me, pull me.
Move me.
Leave your smudges trailing behind me-
Indistinct characters formed by deformed instruments.
II
How many hands do you have, God?
How many quills can you work?
III
Blot us out-
blot us into your darkness.
Picture, picture:
A parchment Earth,
Blackening with story.
Picture, picture:
A disappearing Earth,
Written into glory.
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