​A brigade of sharpened pencils at the ready. Merciful to the Hand of their master.

A pair of Hands with trees for fingers barking commands, the pencils every ready to make their mark.

They were going to write history.

Pursuing a cause, which they would gladly give their lead for, persistently until the very end, even if it meant that they would leave this life carved to the bone.

Such fragile wooden structures they were.
They were often chomped on by the Teeth,

Leaving ridges one their sides believing it was better for grip.
The Teeth commanded obedience and gnarled any weird, and usually weary, Pencil.

Rarely bashed to the splinters, yet often dropped or tapped on lightly against a desk, It was all for the drawing. Sacrifices they were ever willing to make.
Collectively they would create a piece that would be remembered for all Pencils to come and their names chanted about through the ages, or so they thought.

The sketch was a result of what the Hand willed as he wielded each pencil individually, separating them from one another for fear of a revolution.

A revolution that would spark the birth of a new era where the Pencils reigned supreme, revealing the secret behind the life of their work, bringing out the aesthetics in the concept of desire for love.

A room filled with love would be detrimental to the Hand and so the walls turned from vibrant to grey, with the Hand leading the way.
Pencils build history giving it shape, discarded once their purpose fulfilled, and the Hand scribes its credentials at the bottom,

Self-proclaimed, praise.

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