The pencil, always so poised,
so sharp, so in fashion,
came, one day, to feel its own lead.
The spine within became buckled,
twisted, fantasising
about its own death.
The point became lost,
worn down to a stub, where
nothing, but nothing, was left
but the scratchings of a soul
looking to transcend bereft.
A poem for day 21 of NaPoWriMo 2015: the erasure
inktuition 