Looking into the crowd with an innocent mind,
Hoping and only knowing purity.
The walls of the mind painted white,
Polished, spotless of the contaminants of this world.
One, two, three.
Faeries and puppies and as happy as can be.
Four, five six.
The Easter bunny, Santa, all tricks.
Seven, eight, nine.
Red paints it's way across the canvass, making it no longer beautiful and fine.
Ten, eleven, twelve.
Distorted, haunting. The boy, the little boy, he kicked a hole in the canvas, spraying black onto it as he went.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
No longer recognizable, black and red and explosive. The blank canvas will never be seen.
It will never be the same, this painting.
Locked away so that others do not look upon the artwork with distain.
Looking into the crowd with a damaged mind,
Disregarding and only knowing hatred and all things foul.
The walls of the mind painted black and full of holes,
Ruined, bathed in the grime and contaminants of the world.