The Case of Kendra

Scene I.

Aakil. Oh, how cruel is the world?
       And how blind the people, who reside in this vicious hell of a town, a crime scene;
       A cold blooded murder brought upon us, as the moon stood watching,
       Ashamed as its progeny was slaughtered and then handed a knife;
          Limp blade in limp arm. How cruel is the world's art.

       A man runs into the streets, his wife dead in his arms
       Her body, lifeless and exposed to the world; a picture-perfect tragedy
       And now picture-perfect silence. Pictures do not speak.
       Are we humans then, merely paintings with no tongues, no agency?
       Then I wonder, if there would sound a scream, if someone were to
            slash an uncaring dagger upon this canvas.
        Or if they would stand just as mute.

Calla. The world seems filled with silvery ghosts of sorrow and sadness,
           easily seen in the face of those wandering the streets —
            indeed, I have seen walking the streets
            not men and women; but silvered, sorrowful ghosts —
                   easily felt in the air.

Aakil. Yes, that's what I said, an exquisite landscape,
           silvered, mute paint-men and paint-women, brushed in
               with silver leaf.