Mindless and Meaningless.

Here's another poem I've been meaning to share for a while:

The now open gallery showcased only three of the late artist's works
The curator walked up and described them in these words:
"This is his canvas of pain, a cloudless sky painted red
drenched in the blood his open veins had shed
This one here, an ocean of sorrows, it's reach far and wide
still wet from all his tears that haven't yet dried
And this here,a storm brewing in a distant horizon
a kettle simmering with his rage, which could, at any moment, instantly rise up".