#WritcoPoemPrompt6
The river that flows down the hill,
Is never able to be a moment still,
The rocks and pebbles at it's edge,
Lie as steady as the dead,

Nature presuppose who I am, a poet with a pencil, produced from the strongest trees. Every verse written will settle in posterity. The pencil is fashioned with an eraser up top. To erase any mistakes made. The pencil has a golden exterior, I call it shades. Different colors in the spectrum, like the bright glow of emerald green. With other colors created and distributed once seen. Under the watchful eyes of inquisitive poetry. The pencil guides and trace carefully. The dark graphite writes most often it creates, in common circles, the name graphite, is referred to as lead. My golden pencil has become a trusted friend. It stays around then lays, sometimes. Waiting to write a familiar verse. Until the graphite breaks, a sharpening instrument removes thin layers, angling the pencil weight. Therefore, the pencil keeps giving the perfect shape, and precise common words readers appreciate. Historical pencil
© Daniel Mason