Their World

They lived in a world of paint

A world of color and hidden tales

None here claimed to be a saint

All worlds apart were pales.

Streets lined in liquid stroke

Created by them to evoke,

Dreams that could never be spoke.

For to speak was to create

That from what they could not hide with paint.

Each morning, by light of dawn,

Each artist moves along,

Brush in weary hand,

All ready on demand.

The gutters filled like pallets,

Their brushes large as mallets.

Dip and swipe, left and right.

until the sun was gone.

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