I leave powder on your fingers and clothes, and become smaller as your creativity flows. I make the pavement a canvas for art, until the rain makes my masterpieces depart.

The origin of sabotage My soul is from the trees If the path's too rocky Then the Dutch might lend you these And Sherlock Holmes would find my mark A most intriguing clue Could it be more obvious? I am a...

Round and round we go, A painted horse, a fleeting dream, Never truly moves.

I slow things down, a thick embrace, often discussed in a hazy space. What am I?

I'm like a chain of land, punctuated by dots of water and sand. If the sea sank by a few degrees, you could conceivable drive across the Keys!