Among the riches that gleamed and spoke,
Charcoal failed to shimmer but smoke.
Hidden within that rough of gems,
It breathed fire and warmed cold dens.
Why so glum? You serve a fine purpose,
But Charcoal no longer wished to feed a furnace.
So it threw itself against grain and sand,
And found itself an artist’s hand.
Charcoal made only one request,
Give me a subject so I can express.
The artist grinned.


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