Only Two of Hundreds

Slowly deteriorating,
Continually shedding its skin,
With every stroke it sheds black tears,
With every fall it loses the most important part of itself,
With every action, it rains ashes.

As this one crumbles, so does its partner,
Black and white, they are perfect matches for each other,
With every stroke it wipes away the tears,
With every fall it bounces right back, and yet,
With every action it gives up a small part of itself.

Aloof, away, stands another,
It’s blade gleaming under the lights,
One may call it an instrument of torture,
A harbinger of pain,
And yet, it is a necessity.

It watches sadly as it sees two more,
So young, time has not been kind to them,
But they are only two of hundreds of stories it has witnessed.
A pencil,
An eraser, and

The sharpener.


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