Lonesome
written by: H. W. Bryce
Vincent strolls a moonlit path,
among the strollers but still alone.
ever alone, unrecognized, untouted,
reeking of oils, hands stained yellow,
white and blue, like a human paint
brush fresh from the sunflower fields.
Oh Vincent, what sad tales fill your
tortured mind? Only you can speak
with the starry skies, only you can
swirl colours to astound the human eye.
Unique unto death, you stroll, pensive,
burdened with ability no one wants to see.
You loaned us an ear to hear you by. We
were too busy to see past the terrible act,
too blind to read the wreched torment
that ruled your aching soul. Did you try
too much? Blame yourself, and such?
Your paintings tell us otherwise, my friend.
May your tortured soul reside in peace in your eternal
silence, dear Vincent. If only we had said when you were
here. Forgive us if you can, dear Vincent. We love you now.
