Assembled in your finest
A funeral march
To the basement
Of a house that isn’t
Your own but has been
Somewhere you’ve lived
Your mother clings
To your brother
Who, by now,
Can’t walk on his own
And your father is
Worried and weak
In heart and soul
And it feels like
You’re dying
Standing together
Huddled one last time
Because all lies are
Revealed with the gleam
Of chrome and the flash
Of silver on guns
And the portrait they paint
Of you is done
In blood
With all the Romanovs dead
Elizabeth Rebel
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-portrait-in-blood-the-romanovs-are-dead/
