A mark of black in pure white waves,

Words the lead defines,

Rubbing now my life away,

A life between the lines.

Each stroke is pain, and yet,

With my nose still to the grind,

Though I go on, in my words,

I leave myself behind.

This my purpose leads to death,

As anyone could foretell,

Unlike the pencils on the shelf,

Their lives unlived immortal.

For when I’m gone, I shall remain,

In something much more beautiful.

-Millie Florence