This quill has its own mind.
I set it down and wait.
And wait.
Upon on the page, once white, refined,
The quill has taken liberty
To fill the empty space
With words
Of ink and majesty.
Some rhyme,
Some rhythm-meter-pace,
Some moral lesson taught in metaphoric grace.
Or not.
The quill knows symbol, simile, sibilance, and style.
It knows the t's to cross the i's to dot
Each order, rank, and file.
If it were not for this quill would you know my name?
You could not read it.
Even still,
Were I to shout from every hill;
If every enemy I could kill;
Or bend your mind with just my will;
Would then my fame transcend this quill?


Penned by my hand on the 6th of Chronos, in the year 390 AF.