Against the grain,
but not the flow,
this is the way
in which I’ll go.
With magic pen in hand,
I’ll take out across this land
and see what I do see,
and these things will hit paper,
by pen, with it's tip
dipped into the ink.
This magic tip with a history,
haunted as it might be.
What words has it written,
in time once here,
now so long past,
and by who’s hand
was it wheeled,
who’s mind,
who’s soul?
For when I picked it up,
and dipped to ink,
this pen, itself,
began to think,
and leave it’s thoughts
in a trail of ink,
before I knew,
it had control.
