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.