The poet and the painter

A poet and a painter

Went walking along the shore

Of a river.

They talked of their lives

And their art.

The painter proclaimed 

After drawing deserted squares

And war torn buildings

He had repainted borders.

In his own hands

Taken the brushstroke

Lithely and sharp.

Eagerly he had

Redrawn maps,

Whitewashed societies ailments,

Drew divisions so deep

Into weak psyche

That even after his final strokes

Were laid upon the canvas

There were people who

Believed his art as truth.

The poet laughed 

And in a rehearsed voice

Recounted how he had rewrote history.

How the verses so bold in imagery,

Had raised armies and toppled religions.

With words craftily slanted

Set revolutions of starving people

Against their own,

Simple psalms that echoed

Into the minds of the vulnerable;

Drafts generations took as god.

Moreover he spoke

About his feats of literature

Overcoming question, propagated to the point where truth was changed.

Rewriting a nations language and policies into a police state.

How his poetry echoes still through the institutions of learning,

His picture lauded by millions.

The poet and the painter

Arrived at a gate

The three headed dog bowed

Welcoming them to damnation;

For these were his masters

Who had sent so many his way

Through pretty words,

Grim paintings,

And false promises.

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