Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
I stood staring at it, imagining him with the knife.
The paint was thick as if he could punctuate further the meanings of life among the swirly stars of night..
What more is there to say about you dear poet..Insane?
Some would argue that all who love are.
But here I am long after your maddness has ceased to transpose itself upon canvas.
Here I am standing stunned by the beauty of it all.
I want desparately to touch it..
I imagine I'd be wrestled to the ground.
Could you have imagined it in the moment of creation, that it would be untouchable?
I realise I'm speaking to you.and I think this is not insane.
I realise that you are speaking to me.... in this oil based poetry... and I understand as Don Mc Lean must have ,when he penned these words....
Now I understand
What you tried to say, to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free:
They would not listen; they did not know how--
Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you
But still, your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do--
But I could've told you, Vincent:
This world was never meant
For one as beautiful as you.
I'm listening Vincent.
Naomi Montana