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A pencil of graphite grey,
Upon a desk where papers lay,
Was touched by dawn’s first golden ray,
And woke to magic from that day.
Its tip, a point of silver light,
Could draw a door to realms of night,
Or sketch a bird that took to flight,
And soared into the morning bright.
It drew a key to fit a lock,
A winding path through tick-tock clock,
A friend to weather any shock,
Upon a lonely, starlit dock.
But when the final line was cast,
The spell, they say, could never last.
The magic faded far too fast …
Just stories on a page amassed.
