The Pencil

Dotting the page of alabaster white
It whispers secretly in my ear, ‘Please write.’

I grasp the magical wand tightly in my hand
My wrinkled fingers slither down the chiselled edge
It paints on the sheet of paper on my demand
And then stops on the cliff, the hazardous ledge

Letters, commas, words, brackets, full stop
All formed by the one same small machine
But oh! Here comes the executioner like a savage mop
Wipes up the masterpiece until it is blankly clean

But the pencil will avenge all its children, as do brave men
So slithers across to the opposite side, starting again.