.

Chipped graphite rolls in between the finger tips

It has a wooden cloak

It nudges the white under to let it move

Allow it to dance on it

But it is repelled

By the brain that is lying beside

For it has gone through 300 emotions in the past second

The graphite mulls

Not knowing what piece to perform

Its confused

The wooden cloak it wears is getting sullied

It looks ancient

But has no proof of experience

It is still long but not drawn

It has not been written with

Danced with

It is handled by nail-bitten appendages

Anxious and trembling

Scared of what might be said or heard

It needs to let go

Of the brain

Of the fingers

Of the cloak

Of the white

All of it