Fradam

Colours thrown quickly, grace these walls

The artists are, but a few small squalls

Lines drawn purposefully, across crimson bricks

Slowly begin to wonder, if my mind’s playing tricks

There’s a figure vague, amidst the hue

A moving leg, a yearning arm or two

Why are they there? I should know

They shimmer briefly and brightly glow

I wish I could, just discern the face

Is it from some time ago, or a faraway place?

It’d help bring to mind, an important name

Rather than, these figures of fame

I ask you though, know what would help?

If throwing paint, made someone yelp

By a voice, surely I’d figure it out

Who’s the one, that’s hiding about

It’d be too easy though, to hear a sound

To simply drop, my ear to the ground

So I stand tall, and gaze abroad

Why in the world, did I choose to hoard?

It leaves me feeling, heartily confused

Clutching so much, thoroughly abused

Yet none the wiser, what lies in the paint

Inhaling the fumes, makes me want to faint

So give to me, that bracing brisk squall

That first daintily doted, upon my young wall