A murder, not a mystery

posted in: Poetry | 0

Paint dripped and dropped, splashing to the floors,

A woman cried alone in the street, as they came all at once,

Breaking down the poet’s doors.

The sun refused to rise that day, as it looked on down with a sorrowful gaze,

And the trees so young and filled with life, were hastily set ablaze.

The rumbling did thunder as the hammer fell down, again and again.

The children and their mothers clenched in agitation,

As they waited for their men.

And while all this was going on, Van Gogh did cut his ear,

For that which set these fires ablaze, was far too much for one alone to fear.

The birds made no sounds as the wind too ceased to whistle,

And too, the loud machines, which churned day on and night,

Halted to a standstill to discuss in silence the befallen plight.

For what all had seen, made all stand most still.

Those without a day been sick, suddenly fell ill.

The greatest crime had been committed,

The most heinous murder in the falling rain.

For this was the day, the most dreariest of days, that art,

Had been slain.

 

by Marc Auf der Heyde

 

Follow Marc-author:

Author at theyoungauthors.com, as well as editor in chief/founder

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