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.