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All in tatters
by the street lamp
On a dark night
His face shone
like the moon bright.
He was the street artist.
Undaunted in spirit.
Not shattered.
Though week from poverty.
How he got those chalks,
varied in color,
is still a mystery.
May be one more mealless day.
The artist triumphed over his
urgent need for food.
His art was par excellence.
His canvas was the road.
His paints those two bit color chalks.
His art reincarnated deities,
religion, mythology sublime.
He is the street artist.
The artist continued in mute concentration.
As curious passers by collected.
Some gave a coin or two.
Some praised him and passed.
No grand exhibitions were for him.
No loud applause, no reviews,
no, nothing for him
The street artist, unknown
bloomed for none.
He is the street artist

 
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