Dear,

Vincent

You feel like a crab on its back but you,

Have become shelter for the terrified,

Transcended to a star shining brightly,

Against darkness, the empty night you died,

Were you ever safe behind your easel,

Carving poorer life with your sharpest thought,

Prometheus of the modern day: stole,

Freedom to be pure, only to get caught,

Bound by old neglect, death by milkless breast,

Coffee table absinthe was not your right,

Born to feel too much too often, alone,

Destined to choose passionate fight or flight,

A book is a man’s best friends, your brother

Loves you, understands, underneath the page,

There is a little boy painting his dreams,

Nature blushing proud to your youthful gaze