The walls are cracked, dented in awkward places,

with tangled lines filling in the spaces

already devoid of paintings and frames,

yet seemingly overflowing all the same.

A three-year-old child once was here,

producing lopsided figures that appear

unrecognizable to anyone you ask,

the first masterpieces of a grand artist.

An eight-year-old child once was here,

tip-toeing riskily on a wooden chair,

practicing her spelling on the cold concrete,

“Incomplete · Incomplete · Incomplete.”

A twelve-year-old child once was here,

lamenting the problems that preteens bear,

dreaming about a world so big

that her drawings can no longer contain all of it.

Overtime, the little girl has disappeared,

and most of the lead has been smeared;

visitors glance at the wall with disdain,

wondering why it hasn’t yet been replaced.

But they do not know that within the art,

forever blooms an innocent, youthful heart;

no matter how old she grows, or how tall,

she’ll always be a child before that wall.