I heard they found him hiding
behind claims of inner peace
and the sweaty palms of a
bare-breasted Parisian lover.
They found red stains on the
mattress. She could have been
a ******; young thoughts and sin,
though I know Leonard had
quite the taste for cheap red wine.
It would often resemble blood-lust.

They dragged him away through
the photographer's parade,
one million flashes mimicking
nature to capture the colour
leaving his handsome face.
In a faded suit and tie,
in a faded verse and rhyme,
he addressed the crowd to call
for freedom, to call for anything
more than a monthly wage.

I heard they found him lurking
in the digital archives of their crimes,
biding his time to become a hero,
to blow the whistle once he had
finally learned how to carry a tune.
He found innocent blood-shed
in the dust-cloud streets and money
distributed amongst greedy hands
like poker chips, passing weaponry
between countries like a blunt.

They dragged him away to
great public disgrace,
funding the next big blockbuster,
turning genius to mania,
and his lover into a victim.
In the lack of space or time,
in the lack of pouring wine,
Leonard learned to whistle
from by the window until
the inner peace returned,

until he understood the birds,
until the city came to burn.