My Imperfect Mona Lisa

An imperfect Mona Lisa crumpled on cold tile, Splatters from a deviant brush, a wall gooey red; A hideous portrait, haunting, her vanishing smile. She had a pretty face, I thought, mind twisted. Her lover, the wicked artist on foot; me soon in pursuit, Pistol out, radio squawking, feet and heart thumping. Out of sight, in sight, front site---shoot or don’t shoot? She had a pretty face, I thought, blood hot, pumping. Silver shields on blue uniting, shouting, sirens wailing. Here, gone, barricaded, cowered in a random shack. She had a pretty face, I thought, kneeling and waiting His surrender---stained hands chained behind his back. She had a pretty face, I thought in the dark, crying; A young man with a gold badge, still new to dying.