The graffiti
that appears on these four walls
isn’t just scribble isn’t just scrawl
it’s magic is intangible
tangling us all
mystical symbols enthrall
They detect and protect
us all from bad spirits
Entities that would eventually suck spirit
from soul and bone
not leaving us alone
Who writes this graffiti no one knows
spirit guides hands that glow
in the throes
of a wind that blows
what it says nobody knows
except the writers hands.
Time may pick her locks
moths eat her frocks
and her splendid looks may fade
but she will still hold my heart
like the spark of her voice
hangs like an echo in the Everglades
in Elysium fields her flowers grow
Only the roses know
the gardeners hands
we nurture the voice we want to hear
even if it is the one we fear
we grow all of what we know
I loved her so
but I was fearful of losing
the ghost of her out of my head.
For if I lose her voices dulcet tone
I will be truly left alone…