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Graffiti is the wall

You painted on my abandoned walls,

leaving your mark on me,

and now that is what the world remembers.

Graffiti on the wall,

Bit blurred, half vivid;

akin to the structure underneath.

Colors speak,

within their boundaries.

An umbilical chord to the mind of the creator;

boundaries defining the shape;

colors lending it whimsy.

The wall,

an unwitting canvas;

Open to irresponsible scrutiny now.

Strange how something so solid,

had no choice against a weaker one.

Is strength then, more than structure?

Inherent character, lost.

Now replaced with another's story.

Unassuming eyes perceive this the reality etched on a stone.

Not everything etched on stone is real, for stone scars too.

Those familiar,

lend to it the duality of thought;

possibility of both real and unreal;

Reality across dimensions.

Before tripping back into their own reality


A wall,

A corner to rest on,

A space to stare at when in wait,

A sheltered spot of passion,

Now a singular story.

Forced color, finds respite in expression;

for its color's destiny to express;

but it has forever marked the wall's destiny.

How fluid then is destiny, to be marred by colored boundaries?

For how many of us can see beyond sight?

The colors you paint on my walls,


Albeit battered,

And that is now, the apparent reality;

Until there's enough to break.

Image: Graffiti in Montmartre, Paris.

In this city of art, artists find expression more in rebellion than in organized sophistication. And so, art chances upon you, and with such incredible vividness, that it isn't art anymore, but a thought you've already had, which has just come to life in front of you. This graffiti sticks with me, not only for its impeccable detail, but because of the story of peace and fluidity between humans and time it brings alive. The structure was probably an occupied residence, but to me, it always will remain the corner of the old lady with an ethereally peaceful countenance.

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