my poem is evermore

each day my lead wears down
when fingers are scribbling with a stub
will there be anything left of me to write?
or will the lead have seeped into my veins
and my finger take over
marking the lines
of time

and now I know, it doesn’t matter
as the sun curls
to warm the surface of the earth
the wind bounces off the stratosphere
singing along the equator
of love, a sea of
lobsters crawls across the dermis
of the planet,

life will go on
with or without my pencil

my poem is evermore