The Pencil Said




It was…too dull

but slipping easily, fitting –

almost perfectly – into

the sharpener, it ground to

 

a fine point, with which

 

I stabbed out at the blankness

and, staining the innocence,

bled a sacrifice.

 

the matyrs hung, slanted,

 

nailed there with such care,

indignant in their grayness

arrogant with their pride –

 

shouted silent witness

to the strength of

what was not said.

 

Enjoyed this poem? Don’t forget to share it on Twitter!

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.