Pencils and pens

A case

When you died

I cried so much

And so hard

That I wore

A groove in myself.

It was a hollow pipe,

The line inside,

Like the one

In a pencil,

That has lost its lead.

No wonder 

So few words came

For all that time;

Though good things happened,

And the rest.

Now I work more

Like a pen again.

Blue-black marks

Come scratching

From an inky vein.

2016

Photo was taken May 2016 (six years after my Mum died).