As The Pencil Falls


Another day fades to dusk,
And the fire dies in my tired husk.
The stories are told and pictures drawn,
Until new adventures beckon a brand new dawn.

A straw pillow is where I lie my head,
With a hand on my heart for I'm still not dead.
The days work created the beginnings of some,
Putting them in motion with the bang of a drum.

The others I made a sweet epilogue,
Or a sad finale that's covered by smog.
To each their own is my diligent task,
But never to reveal what's under the mask.

For to see that is an impossibility,
So I write my stories with honeyed futility.

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