Art born in urgency and illegality,
in ragged whispers and on tip-toe.
It tells mud-stained fairytales to burdened ears
with a sequence of sprays, pauses and strokes.
Dusty angular voices speak brutal truth
in their secret, rain-splashed hieroglyphics.
Tattooed on the flesh of brick-and-mortar angels,
graffiti spells out its own paradox.
A siren in the night is dragged away screaming
by its flashing blue hair, wailing protests to no one.
Left alone with relief and the urban silence,
this faceless prophet hears his own sweat fall.