Abstracted

The Painter's Revolution

I didn't do this.

I swear. I did not.

It must have been

the lords for the despot.

This just isn't my style.

Look what chaos it wrought!

With houses on fire

and bodies on a cot.

And the snow came down,

but it was terribly hot,

from the panic and fear

and our steady, tired trot.

They chanted in the distance;

they threw in a pot

many things of their past,

then set fire to the lot.

Some of them cried,

while more did not.

Just looked on with triumph

at the burning red clot.

But this isn't my fault.

All I drew was a small blot

of what I thought was right.

So this painting was sought,

by many next of kin

to inspire, so they fought.

And it was dark,

then it was not.

And it did this for years,

still fresh and still hot.

Many were killed

by the vengeance they sought,

and many were saved

by the cleasing they were taught.

As for I; I was neither.

Not dead, definitely not,

but not alive either.

A revolution will rot

like dead sights and dead smells,

so this story can't be bought.

I didn't do this.

I swear. I did not.