A Riddle for the Pen
A God made through the mark,fingers drawn by mental strings;
I dye all blankness dark
with a thousand thought up things.
Ruled over by the yarn,
whipped forth by expertise;
I weave and then I darn,
my work is what I please.
Through my hand I help you see –
can you find the word for me?
By Owen Townsend
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