Scribe

To be a scribe
Requires two tools.
One is in your head, the other?
It is like the soft sharp tip of a pencil.

It waters you down, it wears you away. 
It is not quite a buckle, but it is safe enough to be going on with. 
It is not a mere stick of wood,
To do, you have to have lead in your pencil. 

You have to hold on tight, 
You have to have a heart to write. 
Your breath is your graphite, 
And there is always a rub which inevitably leaves its mark.
 
Have you made your mark today? 
And so the thin dark line offers unlimited life,
It is a line which describes your story. 
Unlike a felled tree which is heart breaking. 

You explain with disappearing lead, 
The scribbled events and connections. 
And hardness becomes irrelevant 
As you turn to wind on time. 

The curly shavings fall like aspersions 
You sharpen your focus. 
Then in the next breath, you rejoin the wood,
Which has fallen to your wooden floor. 

In all reality there was never a belt to tighten. 
However here you will always find 
More paper and pencils. 
So write a new note for posterity.

And dread nought 
Other than having nothing to scratch on the paper. 
Because these tools are so easily burnt, 
And your ideas are easily lost.

©2020 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.

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