inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
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A street artist lived just outside my door and drew a mural every morn.
If he had a home I didn't know it, his clothes were dirty and torn.
Day and night, it seemed like he worked for pocket change.
Shoulda been in museums and things, but instead on Fifth and Main.
I remember the colors, so bright, their sifting swirling arrangement.
They took you to another world far beyond the pavement.
Every morning as I rushed to work, pounding steps upon the street,
I saw this man begin his day with chalk and concrete.
One day as I gazed at the colorful display,
I asked him why he worked the streets for such little pay.
He cracked a smile and then, instead of telling me,
Asked how I could find life in constant drudgery.
One morning the paper said an unknown artist died.
I ran and found his usual spot, tears fighting past my eyes.
His favorite spot was drawn on, like he'd worked late into the night,
With deep red, a sunset bright, setting on a contented life.
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