were you the Master’s hand, painting Heaven
in a single stroke for the lost to see?
Why then be ill-content, disquieted
by a calling found in a pot of paint,
each sermon preached upon a blank canvas?
Yours was a gift of divinity borne
to a mind steeped in layman chaos, drenched
in linseed oil, crafting landscapes
until, painting self portraits, you captured
that physical witness of mania
lurking deep within. One truncated ear
announced to the world what the mirror
found in you; did your Gauguin see it too?
Asylum unburdened your Night, Vincent,
but dawn found you searching for more until
you put that bullet in your broken chest,
final landscape, stippling drops of red
upon a yellow field of silent wheat.
La Tristesse Durera Toujours - “the sadness will last forever”
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