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Van Gogh

Endless sunflower field Rhythmically swaying in the wind Like lazy ocean wave stretches To the distant line of horizon Touching the edge of the sky Melting into hot noon brilliance Boiling all shades of yellow into One burning brightness of sun He walks fast towards the east Then abruptly stops gazing at the sky Licking his lips dried in the wind His breath echoing the rhythm Of sonorous palpitating heart Then his eyes move to the south He turns and runs towards the sun As fast and as far as he possibly can Till he falls on the ground breathless Embracing green grass at the edge Of a long narrow curved shaded path He lays there staring at the space Yellow sunflowers sway slowly in front of his burning dry eyes Color yellow sinks into the depth Of his bluish eyes and transforms Into deep green reflecting the sky The color of pain deep down inside He sees the bright sky going dark In one instant becoming a violent Turbulent cluster of stormy clouds Have been chased toward the north By the winds of the distant south He sees myriads shining stars falling Like a cool refreshing long waited rain Covering his aching body with a cloud Of relief that lifts the nagging pain That burned his soul from inside He lays in the middle of endless Sunflower fields somewhere At the very edge of the universe Long day and torturous night Till he wakes up and sees again The sunflower heads swaying High above in the sky for another Hot hazy non ending day He gets up and walks towards The hey stacks neatly assembled In cozy clusters that create long Shadows of gentle evening sunrays Women figures moving slowly with Sad eye pools framed by tired faces He sees the road with cypresses Overshadowed by slowly emerging Moon light shining on the right side Zillions of stars spinning on the left In a distance he sees long fields of Dancing irises in whirlwind of purple Intoxicating scent of fresh blooms Reaches his nostrils and enters his brain He feels refreshingly clean like a laundry That just have been washed in the rain He opens a weathered wooden door To the night Caffe with orange walls With yellow bright lit pristine floors Brimful glass of aperitive in his hand Stops the time in his exhausted mind Like a restless soul lost in his own Confusing unrecognizable world He moves through the space and time Till he reaches eternity gates That halts him and evokes in him Deep grizzly transcendental fear He sits there on a little wooden chair In a cosmic desert all by himself Immersed in silence and sharp pain Tortured by anxiety that never ends Then he jumps and runs the other way Without opening the eternity door That he was tempted to sway He runs through yellow landscape With tall cypresses marking the path Crossing blooming fields of Arles Yellow color catches him and swallows Then he finds with his eye’s blue fields Of olive trees that bring a relief But it doesn’t last long enough Sorrow in a shape of a naked woman Embraces him and holds him tight With her bare strong yet gentle hands Caressing his cheeks and comforting him Till thick darkness of night sucks His exhausted body into a deep Coma like dreamless sleep By the morning when darkness Dissipates he sees wheat fields And a sky covered with flocks Of pitch-black cowing crows Fast moving towards him He jumps out of the bed and runs Through the morning fields Basking in bright warm sun Passing peasants raking hay Who stare at him like they Just have seen a ghost Passing visions blurs in his head The window to dimly lit room Wooden table and peasants eating Plain meager potatoes soup Yellow sunsets at Montmajour Vast landscape going from bright To muted dark with blue undertones Long rows of tall cypress trees Sunflowers laughing at him Prostitute caressing his dry lips With white long delicate fingertips Pain that doesn’t go away But stays inside and lingers A knife with sharp blades All mixes into fast changing Kaleidoscope of images In his feverish exhausted Suffering mind Then he passes out and wakes up In a pool of sticky cold blood Sharp pain cuts his head in a half Bewildered he is staring at the mirror Reflecting his wide open glassy eyes He screams but he doesn't hear His own voice splitting the space And he can’t remember Anything else

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Date: 11/10/2021 5:45:00 PM
Love the imagery, the pose, the power, a great poem of a great artist!
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Date: 1/16/2020 9:05:00 PM
Beautifully written..So much History told by a word Master....Thank You..
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Date: 1/16/2020 3:04:00 AM
This is a captivating description of Vincent's descent into a hell on earth he could not escape. You have so lovingly and artfully woven themes of many of his paintings into your poetic vignette, Ruta. This is a masterpiece of an homage to a Master of art. ~ John
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