The Fading Mural

On a weathered wall, colors dim,

A story told in fading paint.
Once vibrant figures now stand mute,
Their voices lost to sun and rain.

Brushstrokes, once bold, now crumble,

Flaking away like autumn leaves.
The artist's vision slowly blurs,
As time erodes what skill achieved.

A child's face, eyes once bright,

Now peers through a veil of grime.
Her smile, a ghost of joy,
Haunts this urban canvas.

Beside her, trees once lush and green,

Now bare their faded branches.
Leaves of rust and smoky grey,
A forest lost to memory.

The mural's heart, a soaring bird,

Wings outstretched in frozen flight.
Its feathers, once a riot of hues,
Now meld in muted twilight.
Below, a river once flowed blue,
Now runs with pallid streaks.
Its painted waves no longer dance,
But languish, still and meek.

The cityscape that formed the

background,
A dream of progress and of hope,
Now stands a shadowed silhouette,
Its promise faded, out of scope.

Graffiti tags encroach the edges,

New voices claiming aged space.
The mural's message obscured,
By scrawled names and hurried haste.

Passersby rarely pause these days,

To glimpse this fading glory.
Eyes fixed on glowing screens,
Blind to this wordless story.

At dusk, when shadows lengthen,

The mural seems to stir.
Colors briefly brighten,
As if refusing to inter.

But morning brings reality,

Another layer lost to time.
The wall's story slowly ending,
Fading line by fading line.

Yet still it clings, this painted tale,

To bricks and mortar, wind and sky.
A stubborn echo of creation,
Unwilling to completely die.

In this slow fade to obscurity,

There's a beauty bittersweet.
A testament to impermanence,
Where art and time discreetly meet.