Inscription Intuition

Growing vines with felt tip edges
writing as they move along the walls.
They scatter graffiti words,
etched in the darkness
by which dreams are created.

The letters wait to be spoken
by shy, unsure lips
that never know when
and when not
the time might be right
to vocalize the thoughts
that now
drip down the walls.

Quick, wet paint moving over time.

They are damp words,
now, forever scripted inside the empty rooms
that hold overgrown ideas
and 12 foot tall weeds that lean in an unfelt breeze,
like girls waiting along walls
for that one special dance.

Afterthought:
The girls hold chili bowls and beer in their hands
hoping to entice
with more than just their smiles.