Unmasked, cold, blank, <br /> the bullet killed the gold painter, <br /> shielding thieves taking millions <br /> to mock his hurt, his toil, his worth. <br /> <br /> Eighty dollars left to drown in blood <br /> as thieves went free to multiply, <br /> bulletsafe, insensate, to hurt, to steal. <br /> <br /> Unique foreboding's siren shrill <br /> of outrage failed to force arrest. <br /> <br /> The Germs run free <br /> Strewing <br /> the Van Gough curse.<br /><br />Dorothy Randle Clinton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/arrant-bullet/
