A pencil rolled beneath the bed And no one bothered looking there. Some five days must have come and fled, Yet still it felt no dark despair.
It watched its brothers day by day Accomplish their appointed task, Rising before the light of day To finish portraits—all they'd ask.
The pencil then resolved to speak: "Why are you not more careful, friends? I've stayed the same—still strong and sleek— While you grow short before it ends.
You're sharpened, pointed, worn away, Ground down with teeth till nearly gone, Tomorrow you may cease to stay... Perhaps by morning you'll be done."
His brothers answered not one word, But by the morning light of day, A portrait on the wall appeared— And, alas, the pencil had given way.
It fell to mice to feast upon.
