Look.
In dark alleyways,
in bridge cavities,
layer of chemicals and grime
stick to the brick.
This is where the artist puts on his show.
In the shadows of the night
his master piece comes alive
with a hiss,
scenes seeping in florescent,
scream for attention.
Passing down I-79
it’s one your left,
Imagine.
Imagine the time.
Imagine the effort, the money, and the care,
glimpsed through your car window,
seen only as a blur.
Imagine the pain the artist must endure,
and yet he continues.
Think.
This is his history, his pain,
recorded on cement.
a silent scream for help.
The lights, shadows, color, and black
meshed together in faces, fire and flesh.
Not called art but graffiti.