Arrant Bullet

Unmasked, cold, blank,
the bullet killed the gold painter,
shielding thieves taking millions
to mock his hurt, his toil, his worth.

Eighty dollars left to drown in blood
as thieves went free to multiply,
bulletsafe, insensate, to hurt, to steal.

Unique foreboding's siren shrill
of outrage failed to force arrest.

The Germs run free
Strewing
the Van Gough curse.

by Dorothy Randle Clinton

Other poems of DOROTHY RANDLE CLINTON (2)

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