street art(ificial)

he stood still, trying to define the walls of the latest box he found himself trapped in, walking into a wind that isn’t blowing, tugging on a rope that slides through his grip, his painted smile at odds with the pain in his eyes, beret jauntily perched on his head, onlookers just stood and watched as his prison filled with poisonous gas, he plead without words for someone, anyone to break him free but there was only applause keeping helping hands otherwise occupied

she sits upon a bench sketching little scenes in chalk and charcoal, filling in the hidden details of the world around her

with ever fleeting strength he pounds on the walls of the cage, begging anyone to pull him free, but they stare in rapt attention, the hurricane winds flare up and he lowers his center of gravity to fight it, soon the gale force will crush him against the bars of his cell, forcing the poison into his lungs, another silent fatality mistaken for street art, tears run down his cheeks, cracking the paint with rivers of frustration and futility, yet no sound is made as he finally gives in, the rope falls from lifeless hands, and the crowd of smiling faces disperses


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