deepundergroundpoetry.com
Killer
They called him the painter
An artist - they said,
His unique skills were what amazed
In this cicle of dead.
On his palate only one colour,
Red - all sorts of red,
And with one stroke of his brush everything was painted the way he said.
They see the kindness of an angel
But once alone with his canvas
His innocence vanish, covered with melancolic sadness.
The way he paint
The way his sharp brush ripps the canvas,
It was his skills that killed
It was his mind that sinned.
An artist - they said,
His unique skills were what amazed
In this cicle of dead.
On his palate only one colour,
Red - all sorts of red,
And with one stroke of his brush everything was painted the way he said.
They see the kindness of an angel
But once alone with his canvas
His innocence vanish, covered with melancolic sadness.
The way he paint
The way his sharp brush ripps the canvas,
It was his skills that killed
It was his mind that sinned.
Published 6th Dec 2017
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comments 3
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The author encourages honest critique.
6th Dec 2017 9:43am
Keeps me guessing who this is about. Very nice crash into disaster at the last line. So many of us might fit this description.
13th Dec 2017 12:22pm
20th Jan 2018 2:14pm
