Vincent van Gogh

There an arthritic bullet lay, was stopped,

By bone, and blood encrusted wounds unchecked.

He stumbled, staggered back, was stamm’ring, wrecked,

Lurched without want, as though by drink was hopped

 

In fields where rushes crushed beneath him, cropped

And ripe, but brown, produced a dead effect.

His room, with canvas, colours-clothed, bedecked,

From pots of inks and tinctures, stoppers popped.

 

The drunkard drained of dignity, and painted

Portent of peril, spiralled into madness

Flowering, blooming in his starry eyes.

 

Clutching colour, face and field, but tainted:

Strains of a plague, a harsh and harried sadness

Blossoming black, ingrained, and Vincent dies.

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