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A Quill

Updated on October 28, 2015

And as the point of my inked quill stained the parchment in dimmed light,

I began weaving together the story of how this came to be my life.

Born into poverty under the sheets of bazaar tents,

Forced into religion where my worth was by repent.

By 5, my tiny fingers weaved the clothing we would sell,

Never more than eight shillings I would make by dinner’s bell.

Barefoot and in trembles as the cold of night approached,

I hid from my mother (the fact that right under) the floor ,

was a swarm, of four or more, armies of termites at war,

sneaking under the door and floorboards,

and eating at the wooden chair that she, I suppose luckily, abhors.

Alas! The flame of my candle flickers,

I take a swig of liquor and pray I don’t run out of wick or,

perhaps ink, so I can finish quicker.

A death by hanging doesn’t wait.

And yet, my crime was but a mere comment that would soon the hierarchy shake.

But a lot is at stake, quite literally like the witches they take.

Somehow I face a similar fate.

Sleep is elusive.

I wait for an impending noose and, as my body will dangle by neck,

I try not to show that inside I regret,

not having told Elizabeth that yes, I did, and I do love her, until debt,

and death, do us part.

This scrap of small surface has shrunk to a half,

All the sand has fallen down the dreaded hourglass,

but no matter the mass of those who reject my views,

I will die knowing I spoke for all them whose,

opinions, beliefs, muse and virtues,

were similar in point and similarly abused.

But I lit an invisible fuse, and infused,

all the monarchical, hierarchical and taboo issues,

with a tiny seed.

It will grow, and above and below any friend or foe,

it will show that ideas are greater than any chateau.

I hear whispers of a possible overthrow, too.

Ink has run low despite the continuous flow of my words,

The glow of the candle has gotten worse.

I can barely see in this cell anymore,

and that pungent stink has begun to burn in my nose.

And in that moment of final thought,

Two guards raised him to his feet, by which his quill dropped.

But these moments brought him peace,

as he envisioned a future of understanding and ease,

because among this trapeze of tugging beliefs,

was always someone ready to take the lead.

Perhaps in the future it won't mean a public hanging in the street.

Freedom of Truth

Would you risk your Life to speak the Truth?

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