THE PENCIL

The pencil on the table
Your face is in my mind
The way youre looking to me
Gave birth to the dead inside
Yet the pencil is silent
There is only the will
To draw the curves of your face
To feel your skin. 

I saw you in my dreams.
It was so clear and pure.
And here you shine again.
The only dream I had
Is the one I shared with you.
The others I forgot,
The wind tarred them apart
And the dream lifted me up
Waked the artist inside.

The pencil kissed the paper
So tender and so sweet
Gave birth to those purest
Stars anyone will ever meet.
So charming and so warm
The pearls were dropping down
Giving life to those flowers,
Blossoming all around.
And on the paper it carved
The traces of your soul,
The wonders of your sorrow
The sweetness of your faith.

The pencil left the paper
Yet there is more to draw
No one should ever see it
But in our hearts we know
And on the edge of darkness
It was cold beside you
It was ever dead, yet
It lived for seeing you.
And on the paper its soul
Was poured, beneath your tears.
Yet on the paper it died,
long time ago.