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:
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.
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