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 ...