As a young man
Vincent was not a poet
He could not make words sing and dance
He spoke only through brush strokes
Swirls of bright blue and gold

There were luminous street lights over sidewalk cafes
Fields of wildflowers ablaze with colour
And night skies so full of stars that it
Made Vincent
And his audience

But his written words were filled with anguish
A yearning for something just out of his reach
Canvas he was not able to transform

At the end of his life
Vincent, still no poet,
As his mind swirled into darkness
Bruises of black and grey

There were no brush strokes that could soothe his pain

thanks lometa