Tracing Paper

I am the artist’s greatest joy Five foot five and 1/62 ” wide- A paper doll cut out from a stencil, So thin and flat That anyone can take the lightest lead And pencil in my features. And I let them. What am I, a useless, flimsy doodle To do to them? Sometimes, though, if I turn enough I am almost invisible, A stray line- with a shadow That lurks in every corner And hangs over my head Threatening to diminish my existence To a pitiful pulpy paper mess. But it never actually does. With every slight brush of the wind’s fingertips I straighten up with glee Maximizing my surface area Hoping finally, this will be The day I am carried away On the tumbrils of the breeze To the clouds and sky above Where instead of slowly fading As pushes and pulls and sharp objects Tear and pierce my soul- A rip, a hole, widening slowly with the years- Instead, I’ll be surrounded by Cloud Water droplets everywhere Instantly saturating my soul. And lightning will illuminate my departure And thunder will throb with my throes Until at last I disintegrate And end my weary parchment woes.