Power of the Pencil

If never a pencil had graced my hand, How would I know myself? A mirror, while great and grand, Could never pierce beyond my eyes. So silent is their murky stealth. From the tips of feeling grips, I have only bled my truths. Only dreamed my lies. All placed down Carefully so, On a blanket of ice. In the hopes a fire would kindle, And my heart would forever grow. Like birds of spring, Re-awakened I am to the sound, The skit, the soft little tip, Of every word carved through And around my world. No better life is it, Than the fleeting euphoria of thought, And the pleasant goodbye To the cadged in heart, Whose beat only fuels The pencil in my hand. If I had never met you, My life long love, The world would be surely cold, Without the hope of color That you give to me.