A Pen

 

A Pen

by Ryan Billington

Written in the summer of 2005

Meaningless scribbles, a pen in the hand

Neither understanding nor fathoming the depth or use it holds

A purpose it has, a brush for the Master’s piece

Resting in the scars

But to what end is it that I write?

Uncontrolled existence, chaos fills the purpose

Poetry, prose, arithmetic, or account

I know I am held but for what?

Does ink even flow from this mind that consumes me?

Thoughts forever flowing, but from the Source or the stone?

Pride in use, purpose, Maker—not self

Confidence, assurity in what dirt contains

Jar of clay or piece of shale,

To what end have I been formed?

To some a crown and to some a fork

Both from silver vein

But in the end, its purpose served, both shall melt away

For what makes it last and fulfill purpose laid

Is the Maker not the clay

And so I sit a pen, this lump of mud

Unsure, unstable, confident, assured

A pen resting in the Master’s scars