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.