Like your Sunflowers...
you searched.
Darting here and there,
looking with such care
for the perfect center
of the sun.
Not finding even one.
They drooped,
and fell.
In vases of hell.
They died.
Yet you followed still...
and clung to stubborn will.
Now in your stead is hung,
your paintings, every one.
All the while they stripped,
your heart and soul of pride.
And through it all you cried.
Tho not one tear fell,
that anyone could tell.
On whims they based it all.
Upon the stars you called.
They scream so loud and bold,
in desperation told.
One thing not clear to me,
can you still not see?
You suffered admirably,
and made the wealthy rich.
Empowered them with which,
they blatantly display.
In frames they always stay.
Tho, Vincent,
dear Vincent...
you had to
go away.
