Wondrous passion, in fury found
manic strokes of oil
never thick enough to cover
burning doubts that cloud
the soul of genius;
we merely ponder
that which angels
finally plundered,
lingering over lunch of crumbs
left aside his table turned over,
wondering why he never
loved himself as much as we avow,
now grasping at tendrils stars leave
as they fall from his sky