The Graffiti Prophet

He paints in the dead of night,

spray-can sermons on brick skin—

a woman with galaxies in her braids,

a train that bleeds wildflowers,

a door where the city’s reflection

*almost* looks like something better.

Cops call it vandalism.

The homeless call it scripture.

Tonight, he outlines a child’s hands

in electric blue,

palms pressed to the wall

like they’re holding back the dark.

At dawn, the neighborhood wakes

to find their own fingers tinged

with impossible light.

*"Art’s not meant to last,"* he mutters,

already moving on.

But the walls remember.

And sometimes,

when the sirens fade,

you can hear them humming.