The Instrument of the Imagination

What I need is a pencil: long and filled with lead

 or, perhaps some charcoal

 scraped along the edge of an artist’s scroll

 a medium that is soft, a medium that will spread.

 These tools of infinity dictate what is to be sought and read,

 and with their power often cajole

 the mind to see another’s soul.

 A heart that is gold, a heart that bleeds red.

 It is the only escape from my head

 a passage that falls through my shoulder, through my finger tips

 translated on paper through marks and strips.

 I can only hope it is not misread.

What would one do without the pencil to guide them?

Without a tool to bring order from mayhem.