A poem about Charcoal and a friend |
What is a charcoal? Just a mere stick of darken soul? Just a mere tool to add darkness into art but what is its worth to a piece of art full of darkness to ones heart? It has nothing to add, nothing to prove But to a plain canvas, it is scant a tool to fuel ones imagination or misuse But why must this imagination be dark? Why must it leave its mark? In a world of dark, Why must the charcoal live in the form of a lurk? The more I ponder these thoughts, the more i remember, a piece of charcoal stands on its stage of quartz. Allowing myself to be its canvas, it fills my white void Like a puzzle piece, she fits perfectly despite me missing most of the pieces of my poised. As she herself falls into dust, She stands tall, like a bust. Despite being unable to find what she looks for, She still thrives knowing the lore. Must the charcoal always add dark? But then, what must it add to a piece full of black marks? A mere painting full of black, With no worth or no track. To a piece worth throwing, it won't be a hassle for the charcoal to leave a string. I am sure it doesn't matter, But until that piece shatters, the charcoal would stand flattered for it too wishes for the moment in which it mattered. |