Chisel
calm, aware
of his own edge
but having nothing
to strike him and
make him cut,
he sat there
looking around
at conversations
he thought stupid
until the time came to go home
and return to his sharpening
in the dark. His edge
was brittle in no time.
God, he cried,
you’re a lazy craftsman.
Take me up, Lord,
and let me make a groove
in your dumb wooden world.
I need a smiting to act
as I have been forged to act.
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Dark Matter 
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