The Pencil

You're the real writer.
Within that slender
Octagonal totem
Courses the
Mercurial wonder of
The universe. You are
Finite with
Infinite possibilities.

I have crushed
Many of your
Varicolored cousins.
Oh, from their hearts
Spill the mass of ideas
That escaped the tongue of
My muse.
They shall remain
Blurred, in a
Dark, sable puddle.
Left to soak into the
Oak tabletop.

I have seen you there.
Lying so coyly, longing for
My touch. The sun is setting
In the east, anti-life, for
Only in that moment do
You reveal what hides
Within you. I have seen
You, you Goliath in shadow.