Crayons and City Buses
Some were peeling
others chipped and cracked
Some crayons sat tall and semi-pristine
others were beautifully bent and black
One was dotted with the colors from another
All were silent as ice mountain monks.
There were a few empty seats
(monuments to the lost?)
Where do the discarded and forgotten go?
Where do waxen souls leave their mark...
An old box of crayons is much like a city bus.
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