In between young fingers pale as the blank page
lays the writer’s wand
incantations completely foreign to the prophet, to whom this transformed timber employs
a wise old oak buried inside out
graphite earth at its core
body stuffed with earth, instead of earth stuffed with body
the gaudy yellow exterior
forever dressed wrong for one’s own funeral
a murdered wise and ancient entity
ripped apart by carless metallic hands
on endless assembly lines
Creator of things.
A god of its own.
doesn’t suit me
forced words require a tool more artificial
I trade it for a keyboard.