Whirring whirling shaving the wood
Mutilating the mutinous stub
Murderously sharper all to the good
Clear line graphite onto sheet rubs
Slowly descending into the portal
Hole of dark death to the unwitting dull
Shrinking sharp pencil is not immortal
Disappearing day by day thin yellow hull
Pinnacle of points the keenest lead verge
Snaps breaks wear down a stump now dead
Eaten away when will eraser merge
Lonely poor pencil life’s shavings shed
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about small things, nothings and the somethings in between
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