Tiny rivulets of paint Spew onto the concrete canvas, The outlet of her mind. The monster she shows passersby In garish colors clings In each mind's eye. I wonder, as I walk, why? Why the monster, like a villain From the dreams of children, Screams louder than the print Of any city's Times. Is it the risk? The risk she took With each sweep, with each line? The message is clear. Terror isn't a teen Armed with aerosolized pigment, Running from uniformed slaves To the laws of the game. Terror is the lover Who leaves, who leaves Her affection barren, An affectation, designed To coax her new lover Of his worth, Compensated with carefully-tilled Earth, Slipping from the fingers Of the reconciled man. The monster is green, A tempter of ego, A voracious appetite, Like fire out of control. It will burn, But not consume, The lovers, the mothers Or any in life that lay Its wiles to rest.