Sometimes I work for my dad during the summer, when he needs help painting houses.  This past week was one of those times, and it inspired this poem:

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What stories left these walls marked up?

What souls were here before?

Time marches on, and I its instrument

Cover the relics of history,

Trap the ghosts between coats of paint.

My labor enables you to forget

What passed before.

When you depart, I will return

And wipe these walls of your tale, too.

All people fade, yet I remain:

The immortal, unseen painter.