Short Story

Short Story

There is a little place
in a little room
Where a little chap
hides away amidst the gloom

Tucks his little legs
underneath a well-worn chair
Plucks a piece of paper
and attacks at his despair

A stubby lead pencil
scratches through the fears
Of every little cruelness
that reduces us to tears

Sharp is the lead
but will it penetrate
All the nooks and crannies
that this world creates

There is so little time
for us to stop and look
As he places the cover
upon his little book

There will come a day
when this little man will die
And they'll put him in a tiny hole
underneath the sky

His little lead pencil,
book and chair
Will be placed inside a plastic bag
and taken who knows where ...