Justice is done.
The killers
  walked
           behind
      the
     pale blue and rawly red
      gaze
     at the ceiling
     of the bank
     with marble floors
      and pillars
    decorated with mythological figures.
     Now
    the painter was
     executed
    with the pistol
    in the head.
   The bullet smashed
    through his brain.
   Before all this occurred
    their peculiar origin
   traced a peculiar pattern.
    A summer.
   Forty years passed
    which
        passed before his eyes.
   His first lover,
       he had most madly loved
   exhausted him
    as she lectured
     him
     of
    his dying mother
    in Sicily.
   He did not remember
  seeing a woman leap to her death
   just days after
his father
   kicked
   three police men
  when he grew angry
   when
  the boys of the neighborhood-
   an oppression
  chose sides.
Being a jerk.
  To him.
But now
   having survived
  the army
of a spectator war
  of life
  he
  writes
at the end of
  unfamiliar
   despair.