One day, your favorite piece of art — a famous painting or sculpture, the graffiti next door — comes to life. What happens next?
The graphite marks shifted, trembled and lifted
blue eyes looking about the room, studying the gloom
of dusk that had descended, the day just ended
and looking at me, said with a feeling of dread,
“I was once a king beneath a mountain of gold,
spoken of in songs and stories of old
I had a dream to reclaim and redeem
the pride of my fathers and lift up my brothers
back into the light, join in the fight
to take back what was ours no matter the hour
but greed overtook me, engulfed me. It felled me.
What has become of the world where I’m from?
Does the gold still glitter amidst all that is bitter
when I lost what was mine, a stone so divine?
But that was all in the past, for nothing ever lasts
And to the halls of my fathers and along with my brothers
I go now to rest, knowing at last I was blessed
to discern the truth from the follies of youth,
no matter how late it came, I knew its name.
I was once a king beneath a mountain of gold
spoken of in stories and songs of old,
but now I’m dead.” And that was all that he said.
And the graphite marks shifted, trembled and lifted
till they settled back down amidst the grays, blacks and browns.
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