A Pencil is a warrior
Scratching its very existence away with
Every stroke,
Every kill
Quickening its sturdy frame across the vast plains of paper
Into the wilds, carrying the writer further into the abyss,
That is his mind. Immune to distractions
His words, precise, swift, strong, and hushed on the hunt.

But Just before those perfectly twined hairs connected to the bow, are
released he shouts “?????”
arrows soar through the air like an eagle hitting its mark,
The tranquility is short lived.
The path home is blocked causing a stalemate,
Trapped, and alone,
In the dense forest of imagination he is caught,
A fly in a web, Trying every angle of escape but
This warrior isn’t on the battlefield; he doesn’t draw blood with a sword but with,
his heart.