Trails of tiny rivers,

All of jet or azure,

Flowing and intertwining, creating

What we See,

Think,

Hear,

Smell,

Sense,

And Touch.

The pen,

The sword of knowledge

And the seeker of truth,

It knows

No bounds,

As old as written time,

Radiant

As Fine aspen braches

That gleam in the rays

Of the sun’s golden light.

Oh, slender pen!

With you as the guiding tool,

The world is laid upon

One’s fingertips

With them as the Creator,

Pawns on the chessboard

Of one’s choosing,

Life and death held within grasp,

Are you the saint or the swirling force

Of entropy?

Never.

The world is yours

With words,

With images,

With the ink blood coursing

Through your veins

Leaving soft thin

Vines of obsidian

Liquid,

To weave like a dancer on the pages

Of time.

Elegance,

Style of the pen,

Quill,

Feather,

Calligraphy,

Wood,

Modern,

Plastic,

The ever immortal tool

Of those

Who seek

To be gods,

Granting the wielder

Unyielding power over

Time and space,

Gifting breathless beauty

Or

Destructive hurricanes of malice,

Ever flowing,

As the blood

Of the universe,

All is known,

And everything

Is a Mystery.

–Courtney Larsen (10/14/13)