The Painted Truth

Living in a small house, he liked painting sceneries,
He called them confessions, confessions to the truth.
When questioned of his job, he repeats the same,
“Go to these paintings, and you’ll know what I do.”

He lived in a city of common disappearances,
Disappearances of women, children and the elderly.
As respected as he was, for believing in honesty,
Whenever questioned as a witness, he said they were all at his home.

Once, then twice, they checked his house,
Finally declaring he’s a man with humour.
He kept quiet, without a fight,
Measuring the stupidity of their senses.

He showed his paintings, but never sold,
He kept them at home, like a geographical map.
Being a philosopher of honesty, he preached to his paintings,
“You’re the truth of me, the truth which no one can see.”

But stupid people could never realize,
If they dig up his paintings they could find.
The reason for his paintings wasn’t a mere passion,
They were the locations of all his buried murders.