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“They use us to erase their mistakes.
They blow away our deadened remains.
They throw in a case with no respect;
March I say, don’t let them rub us to death!”
The pencils couldn’t help but smirk,
The sharpeners gave them dirty looks,
The rulers laughed and pinged with mirth:
Those dirty rubbers had no worth.
From underneath the window desk,
From nooks and sides and crevices,
Out they emerged, so they could listen -
his stationery passion glistened.
The throw-out ends and broken halves,
from ends of pencils, old school bags:
darkness saw the erasers collect.
“They may create but we perfect!”
Tagged in Anita Parmar