a beautiful place,
filled with beautiful things
swiftly adorned with crimson.
kindred spirits so suddenly
replaced with silent screams.
faces turned into cold statues,
the memory of happiness.
eyes looking their last,
warmth not returning,
the tornado of life, our beautiful landscape.
painted with grief, our artist leaves the
hand empty, still waiting
for one last grasping touch.
brush strokes of pain plastered across
dark colours of despair, mixed with
droplets of salty tears,
blended into our landscape, disguised.
speckles of rain wash away the red.
the pavements, no longer stained
yet a flood of anguish
sprayed all across,
dotted among the melancholy
the stony visage printed in their minds,
the fields of green forever
branded with grey.
a solitary dove stumbling,
restricted, unable to break free and fly.
our picturesque piece of art smeared
with a clear gloss,
masked with tape along the side,
stripping away signs of loss.
the canvas on the stand,
a masterpiece of stealth, on show,
as the drops of agony are
blurred through the translucent cover