My Pencil

This bar of creation wears a layer of worn skin
has flesh of wood and a coat of paint.
It lies in a dark corner waiting to be used.
Stories wait with thinning patience.

My pencil, as worthless as it seems
is without limit, and waiting to be heard.
It can send readers over misty mountains,
adventuring through steaming jungles,
skimming over stormy seas,
inside the light dancing on the ocean floor,
sharks glittering with malice.

Hiding in the lead,
my imagination is gifted with a voice.