All the other things breathe,
All the other things speak.
There are quite a few,
A few millions.
Which can neither talk,
Nor think.
I highly doubt if they can think.
I’ve always been amazed at my crayons,
The colours in them.
How they shout out “colour me next”
And I’m always topsy and turvy
Between cherry red and the lemon zest.
I clench the coloured wax,
Wrapping between my fingers.
Placing it onto my deserted
Futile depiction;
And overfill the picture,
With stains of berry blue,
And raspberry maroon.
The pint-sized crayon,
Which availed me to
Fill my sketches and life,
With hues of different emotions
Whole day,
Or in the middle of the night.
This one’s to them,
To the exceptional tiny
Pastels from the
Lower shelf of the retail store.
You’ve given me colours,
Taught me the best,
Now,
I mould your molten wax
Into prompts;
And form poetry.
