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.
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