The pencil rests on paper, readily and sharp it stands head first
The hand grips its lead-sword tightly, in closed fist it holds firm
The arm stretches across the line-spaced landscape, straight to the top it reaches, to the beginning
The eyes rest upon the emptiness of white space, awaiting its assignment; keeping the pencils soldiers in line
The mind, closed and empty, will not mitigate the others, will not feed the hunger, will not create
And so it all rests upon white, empty canvas. An maybe yes, and maybe no, the pieces will one day connect
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