The Pencil And The Steed

The pencil chose the steed,
Who traipsed in her glory across,
Perfectly shaded monochromatic forests,
Painted with scattered copses of grey moss.
Along the white parchment,
It glided along the curve of her crest,
To the indentations of wither.
The delicate shading nearly made her hooves appear silver.
Each wave of the pencil made her bold.
The thrill of the hunt and the cold,
Were the tales of the wild that her onyx beady eyes told.
The strokes of her tail and her crest,
Seemed to whip through the fantasy’s breeze,
As though the beauty the pencil gave her,
Would blossom and never cease.
She stared up at me,
Her ageless soul ensnaring my gaze,
With one forearm pointed to the forest- the dark maze.
I yearned for her to take me away,
To ride on her delicate penciled back day after day.
But the pencil was not done.
It blended the lines of her barrel and stifle,
As it then retreated to shade her muzzle.
It danced around her,
Giving her a dark glow,
The kind of resplendence and allure,
That would never cease to grow.
The pencil gave her life.
From her eternally sketched gallop,
To her statuesque body and graceful prance,
Came the growth of my visceral romance.