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A poetic reflection on Van Gogh's tormented life and unappreciated genius, centered on Starry, Starry Night. The verses lament how the world failed to understand him while his paintings expressed what his suffering could not say.
A poetic reflection on Van Gogh's tormented life and unappreciated genius, centered on Starry, Starry Night. The verses lament how the world failed to understand him while his paintings expressed what his suffering could not say.
Morning fields of ambergris, weathered faces lined in paint are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand. Now I understand what you try to say to me, how you suffered for your sanity, and how you try to set them free. They would not listen, they did not know how. Perhaps they'll listen now. For they could not love you, still love was true. When no hope was left in sight, on that starry, starry night. You took your life as lovers often do. But I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you. Starry, starry night. Portraits hung in empty halls. Frameless heads unnamed. Walls with eyes that watch the world and can't forget, like the strangers that you've met, the ragged men in ragged clothes. A silver thorn, a bloody rose, like crushed and broken on the virgin snow. Now I think I know what you try to say to me, how you suffered for your sanity. How you try to set them free, they would not listen. They're not listening still, perhaps they'll never will. Starry, starry night. Starry, starry night. Starry, starry night.
