An ivory sheet, and a pencil.
That pencil tempts me, and so I caress it and let it flow between my fingers.
I let it flow on this ivory sheet, hovering at an exact distance.
Contemplating on what figment of my imagination, I will realize today.
I make it stop in an upright position, as does a fearless soldier who is ready to drop a bomb on my command.
It drops a dot.
I let it seek refuge on my index finger, and drag it across the ivory sheet.
Proud of its sacrifice, it leaves a mark on its motherland.
You deserve it.
But alas, the pastels attack!
They extend from one boundary to another, parallel and harmonized in their invasion.
Their vibrancy dissipates laterally, as they appear to move against The Light.
Nevertheless, they smear their power across my ivory sheet.
They overshadow my line.
You did not deserve this.
You are still the Maker of my world.