Naught but a stick of chalk,

Useful and not,

Perchance it’s wielded by

Cunning hand of prose…

Or ground to powder by

Bless’d fist.

Gifted and bland

Spewing dusty motes,

Toward wretched lungs,

Poisoning… or nourishing.

‘Tis life that be

One of chance,

Naught but a fleeting glance:

To be, or not?