Van Gogh's Wheatfield, and Mine

At this point, I am Van Gogh in his
Final wheatfield, looking at the world
That he didn't paint. The one he
Painted was his mind, and mine,
Like his, has lost its way, and hears
Now echoes of itself, and sees itself
And nothing else, as she, as always,
Doesn't speak. She doesn't love.
She doesn't hate. I may have hurt
Her. Maybe not. I may not matter.
I don't know, but guilt goes off
Like newsreel footage of the last
Atomic bomb, and I am shaken
By the shock, my shelter's shutters
Blown away, and blinded (wait; that
Wrecks the plot) I place my palette
On the ground, and dance my eyes
Between my mind, the canvas, and
What's all around. The crows are
Circling, mocking me. I wish I
Had a gun.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 100 times
Written on 2015-04-04 at 00:17

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text