A Vagabond With Crayons
A Vagabond With Crayons
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