Killing art (expurgated version)

The statues have been laid to rest in earthen graves,

So have the people,

With bullets through dead hearts,

Embedded within for an eternity,

Blood and ink stained manuscripts,

Consumed at the flaring hearts of the fire,

Edges curl, first black, then grey, then disintegrated,

A life's work destroyed in a mere minute,

Thrown into white-tiled or stone-walled cells,

Bruised limbs, bleeding lips, scarred faces,

They beg for their works to be spared from the fire,

But spitting flames are white-hot,

The people are ruthless,

Abuse the power,

Punish the ones who are different,

Burn us, beat us, make us bleed,

Hang us like witches,

Until the flies gather,

Dispose of our corpses in a crimson river,

Stench of death and blood and rotting,

Crimson water-grave where many ink-stained hearts,

Dissolve and our killers bring the apocalypse,

Crashing down among us.

The End

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