When the wood pencil is so short,
That it threatens to disappear
On every stroke, on every letter,
Where has its former body gone ?
Is it true it is no more ?
It went filling workbooks and exercises
Loose leaves and to-do lists.
It emptied bags of tears
And its lead had led stray hearts
Back in line.
If one but looked with enough care
The supports of wooden dust
Hearts would dance, tears would run
In front of their accepting eyes.
In any case, a thousand years away,
All paper will have vanished
In crackled crumbles,
Its lead of yesteryear,
Has it really dispersed ?
Scattered by the winds
There would be no one left
To recognize its face.
A wood splinter
A pinch of dry earth
A stem of corn,
Ashes in the ocean,
Where is it to be seen ?
No one to know all these really were
The wood pencil you once held and pondered.
In this pencil, who would have made out
The bits of others, squeezing to be told
Under the curves of your words and drawings ?
Ten thousand souls being written through
The crumbs you are trying to locate today.
Focusing on your hand, you never noticed.
The one you are losing grip on,
is already the one all others had
To let go.
But can you lose the one that’s not ?
Death is as much of an illusion
Than the disappearance of a sharpened pencil.
If it has never been this
Does it mean it’s never been ?