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A Vagabond With Crayons

A Vagabond With Crayons

1 min
290


They call him a vagabond

A vagabond with a box of crayons

and no place to call home

A rebellion rushes inside his head

The clouds shape his dreams and

All he owns are the shattered stars

scattered in the night skies overhead


He trades stories and philosophies

Setting his soul on fire until the fates align

He runs across broken cities and centuries

Colouring his mind between black lines


And though he has no one by his side

He never walks alone 

In a revolution of ideas and hope

Every soul has a blank page of its own


They call him a vagabond

A vagabond

with a box of crayons 

and no place to call home


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