As a young man
Vincent was not a poet
He could not make words sing and dance
He spoke only through brush strokes
Swirls of bright blue and gold
There were luminous street lights over sidewalk cafes
Fields of wildflowers ablaze with colour
And night skies so full of stars that it
Made Vincent
weightless
And his audience
breathless
But his written words were filled with anguish
A yearning for something just out of his reach
Canvas he was not able to transform
At the end of his life
Vincent, still no poet,
As his mind swirled into darkness
Bruises of black and grey
There were no brush strokes that could soothe his pain
thanks lometa