Open to Misinterpretation

This spinning end I see, whirling on forever,
Is it of a top, or some jaded pencil tip
That, through its burning, flying bits of lead,
Churns out my story, said, unraveled, unsaid?

Writing hence, I see, in a hue that hopes to flush
To gothic red, or deepen to midnight black,
This pencil's end spells in gray, not one subtler shade,
That, which is my life, made, coloured, unmade.

A mountain is traced, high, proud, but quickly rounded,
Flattened, eroded, and then decimated, as it falls
Like a diver, to the memory-moist riverbed of its own canyon,
Well remembered and replicated, done, sketched, undone.

And now the shortened pencil tip, rejuvenated
Perhaps in the recurrence of its own failings, shows
A monster shell of peeling steel, caked in green
That leaks its grime to purge, seen, washed, unseen.

This spinning end I see, is stopped in time,
But runs forever in my unforgiving mind,
Circling, asking me answerless questions to which I say,
"My thoughts are weak, and open to misinterpretation."