the inspiration for this poem: Van Gogh’s “Autumn House Festive”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the house leans into its own firelight~ a fevered yellow against the wine-dark trees. roof tiles curl like burnt paper edges, while the sky bruises purple behind it. two windows gape, empty as hunger. a path ruts the earth, leading nowhere. the chimney exhales a thin ghost of smoke, though no one has lived here for years. still, the whole scene pulses~ not memory, but insistence: a house not remembering warmth, but demanding it.
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