Lessons from a Pencil

In humble wood, a pencil finds its core,
Unremarkable, yet holding so much more,
A strength bestowed from skies with wisdom rare,
A silent guide, an artful soul laid fare.

It trusts the hand that gently steers its flight,
Feeling each stroke, embracing day and night.
With every line upon the page of fate,
It carves a path, though often it must wait.

Its tip may dull and fade,
Life’s rigours blunt the edge; yet unafraid,
It goes through the trials faced,
For suffering can lead it to a grace.

Should a line falter, should a vision stray,
The softest eraser clears the way,
A gentle touch that whispers not to fret -
A wipe can be the hope, not regret.

Within the pencil’s heart, the graphite hums,
Not wood nor shape, but what within it thrums.
For we, like it, should ponder what’s inside,
As outer shells may mask the truth we hide.

And when the paper bears a heavy weight,
Each and every twist bends toward our fate.
A pencil's lesson, simple yet profound,
In every break, a new beginning's found.

As each stroke pencil makes a mark upon the paper,
So we in life’s vast canvas sooner or later
Should leave a trace, a signature of light,
To paint your truth upon the endless night.

So much to learn from simple tools we share,
In every stroke, a lesson to be clear:
To be the pencil and the hand that wields,
Is our point: in unity, a masterpiece reveals.

For if we are but pencil, meek and mild,
We serve another’s dreams, like humble child.
Yet opposite: in possessing all, without pencil's lead,
Our dreams lie dormant, left unsaid, unread.