We sit and color at our desks
With crayons sharp and bright and new,
The years of our adult grotesques
Are far away. With colors few

We set out then to draw it all,
They every bit that life might bring;
Adulthood doesn’t change our call:
And that’s to color everything

So maybe life is dulled with pain,
We find ourselves at times bereft:
But if I check, I think I’ll find
I have a little crayon

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

4 thoughts on “Crayons”

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