As I write this,
My pencil is becoming
Shorter and shorter.
Eventually it will be gone.
Eventually all life will be
Lost forever.
As this pencil dulls,
Age strikes at me.
As I sharpen the pencil,
It still becomes even shorter.
A blade is cutting
Away at my soul.
When I finish,
All that will remain
Is the eraser.
The only thing I
Can do with this
Is to get rid of everything
I wrote.
To erase all memories
Of the past life.
The pencil then is used up,
As is life itself.
-G O L ii A T H
