The grind

The room held its breath, a quiet hum,

and then the sound cut through, precise and loud.

He turned the crank, till his pencil became numb,

a grating noise that pierced the shroud.

The shavings fell, a tight, neat curl,

wood dust and graphite, black and fine.

Each revolution, a tiny, sharp swirl,

a point achieved, a perfect line.

It chewed away the wood, the soft lead too,

reducing substance to a keen, hard edge.

A frantic, restless act, acutely new,

that stripped away the dullness, like a pledge.

And when it stopped, the silence felt more vast,

the air still vibrated, the effort passed.