Scrapkins are made of what once gathered dust,
Giving new life to what gets left behind.
Made out of poetry and magic sword rust,
And just about anything a maker can find.
A rose was made of yellow and pink.
A dress of lavender, a scarf of lace.
The maker dotted it’s eyes out of ink,
With two slender arms and bright wings put in place.
She saw through her small sparkling eyes of blue.
Her eyes took in everything that she could see.
A forest of odd things, a bottle of glue.
She wondered her purpose, and what she should be.
She thought that perhaps she could find someone who knew,
and so she decided, pencil in hand,
Her purpose to seek why and what she should do,
and thus she set off into a strange land…