Vincent in his country villa,
Blind to his immortality,
Could see the cypress omens,
Could drink his own insanity.

His mind is growing weary
As his vision?s getting clearer,
Seeing the beauty in everything,
But never in the mirror.

Alone in the whispering pastures,
Staring into the sun for hours,
Bristles thumping harmony
To the screaming of his sunflowers.

Starlight weaving tapestries
In his vortex of imagination,
Caught in the pulsing agony
Of his nebulous creation.

Sweeping through the dusty trails
In melancholy dance,
Organic still-frames of the madness,
Sealed in fate and circumstance.

Swirling skies of desperation
Tearing time and space apart,
With lead in his yellow,
And lead in his bullet,
And lead in his churning heart.

He was committed to hospital,
And capturing the essence of nature.
Was he lunatic or genius?
It's nothing but nomenclature.

He had the earmarks or brilliance,
But simply would not hear it,
With red on his canvas,
And red on his bandage,
And red on his restless spirit.

He saw the subtle elegance
Of farmers in their toil,
And lay them down in symphonies
Of mineral and oil.

Painting blue the absence
Of the love he could not find,
With blue on his horizon,
And blue on his troubled mind.