The Pencil

A portal, a direct link,
To the centre of imagination.
A key to my heart,
How I express my feelings without speaking.
My sanctuary, a binding between flesh & lead.
A fit in your hand,
Worn and weary from years of use,
Faint red licks along a wooden base.
A guide away from the troubles of life.
What seems like just a spray of splinters,
Is what hides the array of shades,
Inside the grey abundance.
A complex object, yet so simple.
I place it on the blank sea of white,
Images flow through,
Like a stream of colours.
Through my head straight onto the paper,
A spray of tinges burst out before me.
A kindred bond,
Between mind and Pencil.