Broken Crayons

My bare feet touch cold empty floors,
reminding me there once were messes
of broken crayons and colorful designs
shaped into paper doll party dresses,
now nesting in scents of cedar drawers.

Through windows I see the chalk lines
upon the pavements where they played,
sang silly songs, and sold pink lemonade.

I'm lost, a vagabond in haunted hallways,
held back from hearing their sweet voices.

Whispers of wishes and waterfalls cascade
only in my lullaby's soft slumbering serenade.

When the nights never seem to drift into days,
I'm left with the consequences of your choices.




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