Crayon Box Dreams

The fate of a crayon, it waxes and wanes,
From the engrossing grip of an artist's hand,
To a still life framed in a box of chains,
Where unmade strokes are jailed till scanned.

The sky was never cast so blue of hue.
The grass and trees so blushed with green.
The sun so brightly yellow and true.
Than when crayon pastels daubed the scene.

Each crayon remembers its last lip kiss,
Soft and compliant, in a sheath of dreams.
Kept concealed and wrapped up in bliss,
To enliven dull scenes with vivid schemes.

So unleash the dreams you've put away,
In a boxed-set of crayons for a rainy day.

artsonnet

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