Van Gogh

Van Gogh

He sits on a stool in the grassy meadow
Alone, the hot sun of anger
Burning the edges of his palette
Propped up against the bitterness
Of his unknowing hands
Fumbling through sheafs of fibrous memory
Of things unsaid, hardly noticing
The vibrant colors of the mean and faithless swirls
Dabbed errantly on the canvas
Of histories re-written
By a brush with a mind of its own.
Beholding the ugliness of his own misbegotten soul
Ignored by salvation.
The light shifts casting a moment's ray
As if merely a cloud passing by
On a nearby milestone of wildflowers
Which he paints and calls, “Irises.”