The Pencil

The Pencil

As I sit here
Awaiting my muse,
I look at my pencil
And contemplate.

Long an instrument
Rudimentary tool,
All but gone away
Replaced by imitation.

Holding the body
Feeling solid wood,
Correcting errant letters
Removing entire words.

In past school days
It wrote the questions,
Posed by teachers
Expecting answers.

Technology is expected
With all its shortcuts,
Yet sadly impersonal
'Tis new, not improved.

Tomorrow will come
Bringing many advances,
Each marvelous yet
Missing the original point.

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24 lines
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