Idle pencil tip, paused arrogant in
mid-air, aimed restless, the silent
ant on uneven paper symmetries.
It sensed doom, scattered from the
shadow of the lead’s imminent gloom,
dexterous manoeuvres for survival.
Crushed, back broken yet struggling
hopefully (perhaps); tiny spasms of
survival in writhing knots of agony.
Tip twisted, dancing to the whims of
mercy’s hand, cruelly dealt for fancy
of higher cognitive intentionality.
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