The Caveman's Legacy

I remember the scrawling’s upon the walls,

Of men’s and women’s bathroom stalls.

What lay, left behind in the porcelain throne,

Was only a bit cleaner.

The grain of soft metal,

Were hot water falls, only through, 

And in the imagination, precipitation, 

In a field of twisted stick figure angels, 

Proscribed to a swirling flush and brush strokes divine.

And I read, as I painted, over these words,

Of these profits and prophetesses,

Trolling over their etchings

Of the obscene; the antics of their blessings void.