The Writing's on the Wall

I

The graffiti paint, wearing of,
still speaks the language,
a,b,c,d..the letters on the wall.
1,2,3,4..the numbers on the wall,
are falling off.
They're old and of age..
Beaten to their sweet demise,
by the accurate mixture,
of wind, sun and rain.
Accurate torture.
Of weak fun that's pain.
But what to gain?
Is the writing still on the wall?
Is the message in it still visible?
The paint is the voice in the artistic
man's pain.
Is he paid?
No.
He's vandalizing.
You don't get paid to destroy.
To defame.
To autocorrect,
the rich, those in power, those with hunger (greed).
He tires, the one with the spray can.
For every time he wakes up,
he remembers, he's the one with hunger.
The real hunger.
He remembers,
that last night he ate, barely..
that last night he drank, barely..
that last night he smiled, barely..
Yet he's supposed to remain,
legally blind to his pain.
Will this always remain the same?
No time for questions he has no answers for.
He has to rush to work.
His t-shirts are messy from his workmanship.
His fingers permanently painted on the tips,
his lips, cracking from the thirst,
he has,
for a future he passed.
He's a few years older than his age,
the writing's on his page,
on the bus to work,
contemplating the next painting,
of his paining soul's tears,
or of painting his worst fears.

II

He decides not to go to work,
and changes his bus.
He takes the one headed south,
near the old mining stations,
away from the bustling city
of Johannesburg.
He has his bag with him,
the bag with his spray cans,
never left it behind.
He stops the bus near the neglected bridge.
It's funny.
How bridges were meant to connect,
yet this one was a disconnect.
How far is Soweto from his current position?
How far is his rich boss drinking his coffee from here?
He's hungry. He remembers.
Jumps over the rocks and
makes his way to under the bridge.
His second home.
Where he comes to think.
Comes to live.
Comes to forget all his troubles.
He's familiar to the smell of this place.
Uncomfortable but still, familiarity
bred no contempt for him,
but a longing...
A longing for belonging.
He belonged here.

III

He opened his knapsack,
pulled out his cans
and got to work.
These walls were as clean as the
politics of his days.
But he saw them beautiful in his head.
He had them drawn.
He had them spray-painted,
beautifully.
Something breath-taking,
something mind-blowing.
All in his head.
Now it was show-time.
To replicate it on the wall.
To leave his mark.
To write his legacy.
To make his point.
To paint his vision.
He started by writing,
a phrase or two..
And even before he started painting,
the letters he wrote spelled out his vision,
the numbers added up to what he was going to paint.

IV

Is the writing still on the wall?
Are the words he wrote, out of conviction,
hungry but satisfied,
still spelled out on the wall?
I know he painted too.. but the words,
the words he wrote that would describe the painting,
are they still on the wall?
He was patient with them,
carving one letter after the other,
loving one number after the other,
putting them together spelling out
what I really want to know.
What we all want to see.
What did he say to these walls,
under the bridge?
The bridge that was taken down,

the walls, remaining..but broken,
a few years ago, after he passed on.

Did the message also pass on?
A message of the neglected
neglected again?
I guess we'll never know.
No. We'll never read.
No. We'll never see,
this writing under the bridge.
Yes. The writing's on the wall.