A slender thread of metallic grace, Connecting here and there with a trace, In the old days, it sang with a whispering hum, Carrying voices and electricity where they thrum.

In a shell of tan, a twin within, delight in crunch for all to munch. Often crushed to smooth or chunky delight, it spreads joy every bite.

Water snake? Lawn saver? Or portable garden fountain?

I rise without wings, descend without a fall, guiding feet to every floor, a zigzagged hall.

I dance on pages, bright and loud, A neon whisper, bold and proud. I never write, yet mark the way, Pointing out what must stay. I kiss the lines you shouldn’t miss, With glowing strokes of scholarly bliss. Not quite a pen, not quite a writer, What tool am I, that shines much brighter