A Broken Crayon. . .

Born was she rosy-brown;

A father’s little princess with a crown.

Fed was she with maternal white;

A mother’s royal art of twilight.

Flourished she, a ruby gem;

A brother’s motherly chum.

Loved she, the nature’s green;       

Fell she for the night’s queen.              

Painted was her soul with pure white;

Designed was she to spread light.

Dark ’twas at first, when she bled red;

Spark did it in her guts; far away fears fled.

Take did she a valiant vow,

To let not a thing to block her way.

But little did she aware of irony of voguish love;

That did keep her mindfulness away.

Sink did she! Deep into the ocean of thrilled thoughts;

Dance! Did she down the rainbows, not aware of kindless knots.

Lose did she herself, to her love in the pink;

Poor she! Never did think but did in a blink

Tears did flood like a shattered bottle of ink.

Raced her heart! Was not there a clue;

Wasted! Did she feel and finally did fade into blue.

Was born she the beauty to paint the skies;

Lost and laid In love’s grey old lies.

Hopeless did she become and forever gone;

Colourless did she become – a broken crayon!