Dust, Or, Just A Mark

The sharpener’s bite, a tiny sound,

as wood curls, soft, and spirals round.

A fragile ribbon, dark and thin,

revealing lead, the core within.

A puff of dust, a silver stain,

upon the page, then gone again.

A line I drew, a thought I caught,

so easily smudged, a thing for naught.

My finger smears, a careless swipe,

and all that effort, now a stripe.

This greyish ghost, a fading trace,

a hurried, soft, imperfect place.

It’s just a mark, so quick to fade,

this quiet truth, so gently made.

The pencil’s point, a brittle plea,

for some small lasting part of me.