The Egg

In the heart of the city's busy sprawl,

Where streets hum with artists calls,

Graffiti emerges, colours so bright,

In the urban domain, a vibrant sight.

Amidst the chaos, odd shapes align,

Scribbles and signs, a story's design,

Gang emblems and words that often offend,

Among them, sometimes, tales quietly descend.

On a frosty morn', through thick fog's grace,

A sentence appeared, a masterpiece trace.

A message profound, sprayed with care,

‘Lee Milch is an egg!,'  the wall did declare.

Contemplating Lee, my intrigue takes flight,

Why compared to an egg in this urban light?

Does the yolk within hold secrets unknown?

Or a heart that's pure, a journey to be shown?

Perhaps hidden darkness, a core so rotten,

Malice forever stored, never forgotten,

Beneath a smile hiding secrets unspoken,

A labyrinth of mysteries, wide and open.

Yet maybe the opposite holds true in Lee's case,

A good egg, kind-hearted, spreading embrace,

Jokes that dance, a joy never late,

A spirit so light, free from any weight.

In the city's canvas, where graffiti ignites,

Lee Milch's story emerges in vibrant heights,

A tale intricate, with colours amassed,

Sprayed on the wall, for all who walk past.