Void of a Charcoal

What is a charcoal?
Just a mere stick of darken soul?
Just a mere tool to add darkness into art
but what is its worth to a piece of art full of darkness to ones heart?

It has nothing to add, nothing to prove
But to a plain canvas, it is scant a tool to fuel ones imagination or misuse
But why must this imagination be dark?
Why must it leave its mark?

In a world of dark,
Why must the charcoal live in the form of a lurk?

The more I ponder these thoughts,
the more i remember, a piece of charcoal stands on its stage of quartz.
Allowing myself to be its canvas, it fills my white void
Like a puzzle piece, she fits perfectly despite me missing most of the pieces of my poised.

As she herself falls into dust,
She stands tall, like a bust.
Despite being unable to find what she looks for,
She still thrives knowing the lore.

Must the charcoal always add dark?
But then, what must it add to a piece full of black marks?
A mere painting full of black,
With no worth or no track.
To a piece worth throwing,
it won't be a hassle for the charcoal to leave a string.

I am sure it doesn't matter,
But until that piece shatters,
the charcoal would stand flattered
for it too wishes for the moment in which it mattered.