Crayon Box Dreams

When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller, and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach, —oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,— my crayon box dreams of unbridled color! When weeks waste precious hues for wanton squalor, my paintings doning the pale death of bleach, —or worse!—, if poetry can no more teach,— my crayon box prays for fuller color! Woe!Woe!Woe!—unto the whole damn affair! My chalks, my pastels, ground to bits and dusts, scattered astray in wicked winter’s gusts— and cruel life squanders these, without a care? How many months, how many years, until the thrill once more spills forth from this dry quill?