Paint Graffiti black, blood batteries leaking have melted the wall

This poem is a response to a prompt invitation directed to me by my good friend CDTPPW. The theme of the poem is, ‘The Dragon in Graffiti’. The theme has weight, and substance and more so lends an artistic gaze How you juxtapose and elucidate themes of the dragon and its persistence in trying to be in coherence in sync with the Grafitti. There is a lot of world-building involved so, thought of trying to pen and register my words on this enticing blank sheet.

Before moving on, I would like to thank Warren "Storyteller" Brown, the original creator of the prompt many thanks for creating such an interesting theme for all of us to work on.

Painting a translucent dense nude color

Cacophony rages with the abyss, as the 15 Wonders of the World seemingly rise and capture the skyline,

All embedded, in walls the dragon appears,

For the modern nascent structures paint a rather crooked picture, oblivious denture, rhetorical adventure,

High-rise men catapult and head to a blood bank to get some blood money.

Authoritarian sentiments, and painting graffiti nude, paint the walls of the downed city with blood oozing out of slit wrists.

Draw a piece of flesh from you,

And stick near to the blank sheet you are staring at,

Conniving, apologizing for the fate dips itself in the eyes of the Congolese Mines,

For they say, the world is about to end, the environment is damaged, drug peddlers will stop peddling drugs and armies will stop fighting wars.

Open the locked gaze and perforate it to penetrate, analyze the strands 1 Quadrillionth of the hair fallen sullen, broken to splattered pieces.

The penetrating gaze bounces while hitting the periphery and catering to all broken systems,

Not seeing what they call an earth stratosphere today, being mulched and condoned to be ousted from the atmosphere,

Reeks Pain of the Congolese Children, surviving, minting lithium, shedding blood,

Dying and all the super firms, super rich, yet talk about the threatening psychotic climate,

While the blood batteries power reckless corruption, the gospel remains the same, for energy can be fuelled by the new fuel, blood batteries. But the cost is a non-equitable share for the interests of many.

Painting the Wall Canvas Black

For in the vast lands of Indica, a Crane-necked gentleman and so does the self-rational man from Utopia,

Are trying to weave their subtler consciences together.

Both appealing and understanding to create Graffiti made of horizontal lines, vertical entropies, splintered sections, and sharp edges.

They are painting the wall — blue, white, red, ochre, bones, and vegetable skins.

For early wall, painters thought that vegetables can only cause color pigments to exist.

Drawing dragons from eggplant skin and his red whiskers from a blood rush tomato.

Both connived and dreaded the vast hypocrisy, the unending paradox of deranged mankind,

As in their own systems, schisms faded and dead people, as young as a day’s old, and people who lived beyond centuries appeared.

They both lacked the persistence to tolerate injustice, the moments traced back to hanging skulls of deeper dread and farcical existence,

As in the terrains of Indica, a Pesticide factory, leaked one of its premiered gases, and access to breathing turned into torture.

People spanning boundaries and horizons died, as their air was sloshed with a Price, of the same kind

Of unending dread perpetrator,

Of Nature,

Of Species,

and mankind,

Trying inevitably to lay poisonous air,

To bring in tumultuous despair, make belief homogenizing fair, and persuasive allegiance to share,

The monstrosity of destruction, as progress means development. But How come disruption whichever nation will do who have one planet to live affect,

Since more growth does not mean more development, It's a farce, scarce a skeptical ideal,

There is no unlimited development. For growth equates to the loss of nature, man, beings, the food cycle, and everything down to the tier of existence.

In a spree of lines, the wrists of the dead man are slashed and they make a wall graffiti of solemn destitution,

While both men paint it black after the souls leave, deepening thrust the walls prepare itself to become a black consuming city and

Dragon’s head redacted in the night blinding darkness.

Continuing the prompt tradition I would extend this challenge to some of my fellow writers such as Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier), Nevena Pascaleva, Mustapha El Hajj, Krystal Mossbarger, Jason Edmunds, Denise Larkin, and DJ Hopkins

Thanks a lot for taking some precious time out of your schedule to read my work. If you like it, you can read some of the other poems I have linked below. I hope you have a great day! Thanks for stopping by!!!