The Pencil


Its marks are left

As the future turns into past

And the past becomes all but memory.

It can be found wearing

The gold paint of its author.

To every page turned

Its sweet, silent voice

Stains the page with magical

Words that even the hand

Did not speak.

The roughness of its wooden core

Becomes smooth as it kisses the sharpener.

Its gray nose is sharpened

With the knowledge of words.

Oh dear writer of mine,

How much a treasure it becomes,

But as time goes by

Whilst the tip grow smaller

Its purpose grows larger,

Until it, too, is all but a memory.


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