At once the rhyme is stalled,
the fluent flow of words stilled,
the dulcet murmur bereft of
sweet music of endless ages.
The pencil point rests upon a noun,
its description lost and barren
with failing adjectives and
lingering resting diction…
The words are there,
upon the page,
for the tender tenor of softly
scratching graphite on white paper…
So satisfying are pages
filled with silver grey threads
woven in intricate, unique handwriting.
Pencil lead so soft, recorded with
the flourish of fine exotic ink
without the permanence of errors
impossible to eradicate with invisibility.
© Sometimes, 2017