Inky entrails glide
across an awaiting canvas,
like a figure skater
striving to carve their existence in ice.

Never pondering the meaning of destiny,
or the true nature of its own creations;
this pointed tip is forever poised
for battle.

Wielding a weapon of manifestation,
The Master shivers slightly up above.
A desperate hand is wound tightly
around its aching, glossy form.
This body serves as the ultimate tool.
The conveyer of truth.