“Worn Out”: An Ode to van Gogh
Stroking charcoal struck the canvas with lightning,
His smile widening with each swirl of his wild arm,
The laughter within bursting at the seams to fools.
Fools to think he thought so simply plain all to see,
Worn Out the old man, oh, what a simple thought
To use as bait to the fishes of the sane world not.
With each glee his pains and torments eased for a
Moment of peace and happiness, in that, revenge
To those demon humans with penetrating pin eyes.
Pin, needles through his skull to screaming brain,
Why could they not see and feel beyond the paint,
Beyond the pastels of the black and grey to deep.
To deep beyond the touch of powered chalk and
Oils of colors into the land of spirit and soul of God,
The Man’s fingers touching his mind asking for more.
Worn Out his joke on man for the old man is more than
What the eyes see for is the old man tired of weakness
Maybe, but could be an old man’s thoughts of fallen love.
Dreaming of past days in arms of his lady, his woman,
His reason for living, in his knuckled hands holding her
So tight, his reason for living having those old dreams.
Tunes, songs through his mind knowing his greatness,
Knowing none will see until his death has come, hands
with force slashing black and grey envy of the old man.
“van Gogh!” he shouted to himself, “Why!” to the ladies
Of his love, why no love for one named “van Gogh,” why,
As his heart shrunk in resentment of Worn Out old man.
– Steven Louis Ernest
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