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Decades of art, and some as oil paintings,
whereat, had most work made in just the last two years.
Persuades the heart, of similar taste, seems,
fair that, Van Gogh's work may be the best than of his peers.
Vincent van Gogh, Dutch Post-Impressionist,
world-renown painter influenced many.
Pigmented, though touch most, nevertheless,
hurled around saner, with few sense, had he.
Troubled man, Van Gogh, what laid paved the arts,
Vincent was, is, talent none ever has seen.
Paul Gauguin, friend though, the scathed blade departs.
Synthesis, his, style meant one bare the mien.
Two, made into one and yet, two hath begun,
the thing, the world knew little thereof.
Few, failing to hit and run, whose ambition,
nothing, others grew mettle above.
Refute those, impressed with stabled light and color,
learned century's, choose and follows.
A route chose, obsessed myth dabbled night an ochre,
yearned sent flurries, hues in yellows.
*Gawking black crows heard low, gave food for thought,
as it aches for the harvest goes on, ignored.
Mocking back throes meadow, made good or aught,
basket-case the artist knows a reward.
(*Wheatfield With Crows)
*The air bleak as the blue coils, across, squalls out one
Before a rolled Sun parts, the hazed.
A rare fleet cast of spew stars, the course, sprawls undone
On floor of frozen hearts, amazed.
*The room with red laid on a bed, self-portraits,
and a starry night, all that he drew.
*Of gloom pith had said of the head, dealth worthless,
rend a sorry sight, saw hath be true.
(*The Bedroom)(*Self Portrait Bandage Ear And Pipe)
Return he did and had journeyed once more
this to be thus, closing chapter of theirs
Determined bid an injurious score
pistolet à broche, used in *château d'Auvers.
(*The House At Auvers)
At fields that lays on back, van Gogh's gun had meaning, on track
somewhere the aim had hit him.
Askew's delays the trek, and no one hath seen him come back,
gun there unclaimed, laid hidden.
Bedridden in pain, his next-door
neighbor's alerted, and speak to *Doctor Gachet,
The aide seen in vain, 'tis mentor
labors diverted, send Theo without delay.
Know there's no other, for such pastimes,
or a best brother had died, that Vince,
he did, convinced he'd hath outsmarted the
creative sharpest could brave hearts emerge.
Theo his brother, for much less time,
for the last juncture, had cried, yet since,
instead, saw Vince be it undoubtedly
a great of art's best, who'd gave art its surge.
2020 January 25
Writing Prompt- Let's Write a Lento- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Copyright © William Kekaula | Year Posted 2020