Panes of graffiti are breached by light.
Their reflection is not a paradox, but proof that
aging exists among youth.
Darkness attempts to mirror fragile, blooming life
The wall, the flowers
Both deep red like the sap of life
Rough window panes are remnants of struggle,
Coming to terms with contradictions,
Praying possibly to find balance
In a courtyard,
not a palace’s,
for it is dusted with dirt.
Paint fades into rust,
fences of string weaken,
falling into obtuse angles,
in acute time.
Stools seated in the garden alone.
But on both sides of the window,
a shadow, image partnership
survives decades and depth.
People walk with their choices,
cultivating color in soil,
watering thirst, encased in wood.
Each with intention,
all with purpose,
mere difference in hues.