This is an old one, but fellow DVers might enjoy it...
Van Gogh
I
Irises, beautiful in day,
Where in the breeze they gently sway.
With every brushstroke Vincent gave,
To canvas; he but tried to save,
His mind as it fluttered away.
With colours as his tool he says,
That which he wishes to convey.
And now he hides within his brave,
And tortured soul.
His heart, like rope, will slowly fray.
For sanity, his art he’ll trade.
And yet the situation’s grave,
As Vincent feels aught but a slave
To his confused, to his betrayed,
And tortured soul.
II
Sunflowers bloom in summer’s shine,
The world he sees beauty divine.
And while he knows not what is true,
He knows what it is he can do,
In Vincent’s eyes the world is fine.
It is no clear knowledge of mine,
Of whether Vincent thought it fine.
How is the world through his eyes viewed,
While he falls down.
Vincent searches for any sign,
Of what’s happening in his mind.
For justice in his soul he sues,
Expressed on canvas, vibrant hues.
And yet for Vincent it’s not fine,
While he falls down.
III
Starry nights, is it here he goes,
In life his brush on canvas flows.
And in his long lived legacy,
I wonder, will we ever see,
The world that Vincent sees and knows.
This is the tale of one Van Gogh,
Who in his life could never throw,
This world that could not let him free,
Off his shoulders.
In Vincent’s eyes a heartfelt glow,
This world will reap the sees he sows,
He feels the world will never see,
The legend he could truly be.
In death he felt the world be thrown,
Off his shoulders.
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