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I Wish I was that Rusted Face

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I wish I was that rusted face
of the brick-broken building
unseen on the corner
near the train station.
That people would stroll,
pace, run, skip, and mozy on past,
never glancing at my boarded windows.
I wish that in the dark
which veiled even the brightest
city's night,
his hands would shake,
his aim so steady,
and he would wet my crumbled complexion.
And he would paint
the sad fairytale of the passerby
and the modern day minstrel
who've rested against me.
I wish that come daybreak,
I would be transformed,
and all would marvel
all would gasp
at the spraypainted splendor
which had only a few hours before,
been naught but another
desolate urban corner
which all the business men ignored.
I wish that the so-called 'vandal'
would create upon me an oasis
of beauty
in an ugly world.





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