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29 October, 2008

The Scribe

The Scribe without a pen
is like my nights without bad dreams.
Rivers run dry and fade away
while the Scribe's inscriptions remain.
Words inspired by Unseen Things
guide the mind of the writer,
His hand just the tip of the Quill,
the tip of Tehuti's Pen.
When the ink dries,
and the pages become weathered and torn,
another One comes,
though not always better than the Ones before.
Each Scribe has purpose programmed,
coursing in vein.
Body and brain only a vessle for the Neteraat.
None dare to condemn
except in tones of their own Silence.
Their bitter hearts condone violence of might
and everything their hearts burn with
their own hands ignite.
Some say "violence begets violence". Not in the Scribe,
He only records as his pen is inspired.
Tehuti owns His Mind.

10/4/08 Nuwbunun The Black Lotus this poem can be heard live from the ward on Check out the whole thing, and find me at about the 1 hour mark. Thanks!

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