who have always stayed by man’s side
enabling expression of emotions
and their extermination.
The pencils which,
whine not whence you need them at two
in the morning or say four, sleep not without you
safely tucked in bed.
Pencils that die inch by inch,
tending an artist’s turmoil or a writer’s ruckus
with a smoke of grey or graphite crushed,
and designs– oh such!
Pencils. Do you see not how they aid
an ailing heart, a studious kid, a busy clerk?
Out on paper, they run until you’re tired
resting only in your nearest drawer after work.
Written in response to today’s poetry challenge which asked us to write an ode to something in our “drawer”.