Colorful sticks of imagination, melting rainbows in the hands of young artists, leaving vibrant trails on blank landscapes.

I have a head but no eyes. I get beaten but never cry. I have skin but no bones. A pillow deadens my moans. The heart tones...

In the heart of the machine, I spin, a circular dance, teeth interlock, crafting motion's advance. Without me, the giant stands still, a silent tale of iron will.

I've a handsome carriage, but not a one horse; I've a pretty ribbon, but lack for tresses; My cousin in Chicago prefers ballistic force; My keys are many, but they ward nothing precious.

Silent cleaners of the deep, they soak up secrets and stories, growing heavier with each tale absorbed, yet always ready for more.