Pencil

Encased in what seems to be an endless circle
of wood, the pencil wreaks of pine scent.
The slowly decaying lead was long ago rammed
inside its back. Now the horrible reminder
of the first day creeps to mind, when they overwhelmed
a round slice of wood, thrusting the broken-spirited
metal onto its back. Along with the surly
eraser top that was stung onto the metal in a flurry
of soft rubber being pierced. So far from that pain,
the tip rolls over paper all day long so drearily.
Words fill the silent page with anguish. Words turn
to pages, pages to days. No security for the shock
of wood so carefully rounded. The lead may seem
safe, but in the end it’s disconnected from life’s joy.