Subjects

Are lost Objects are found They lie in dirty boxes In everyone's town. Each one is unique... Not one is the same... They all have there own colour. Some rusty Some filthy Most are insane Many gather dust... They all have there individual taste and touch. Each one has a name They may lay buried for some time At a pace...but not as rest. They may run strong and deep... Everyone has their own. Some right Some wrong They brake or bloom... But old objects are never found Images forever remain And lie deep in musty rusty boxes In the heart of everyone's Town.