Ink from sharpened edges,

Ink stained feathers stained from ages,

Strands as spider threads,

Weave complex webs,

Flow freely onto parchment,

Mixed cloth, paper and resin,

Holding innumerable paths,

Destiny filled forks in the road.

Single flickering flame,

From burnt wick of a solitary candle,

Shadows covering parchment,

The quill weaves paths,

Foretells futures,

Writes pages of history, Predictions –

Scrolls archived in vaults,

To be rediscovered.

Men of god, God men,

Evil geniuses, Gentle geniuses,

Men of creation, Creation of men,

Nations built, lost, and built again,

Civilizations in footnotes,

Creatures of man’s making,

Dance within the scrolls,

In mercy of Nostradamus’s Quill.

The quill weaves strands,

Complex spider webs,

Flows freely, writing foretelling history.

Would it ever stop,

Pause, reconsider and rewrite,

Foretell events differently.

Create a gentle world,

Free of pain, misery

And filled with love.

Erase from it’s dusty scrolls –

Men of god, God men,

Evil geniuses, Gentle geniuses,

Men of creation, Creation of men.

Leave on its clean unwritten pages,

Beauty, love and beings of heart.

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