Gone is he with flourished brush
Gone to ether, turned to dust,
Left are but his remnant strokes
On canvass old, congealed with must.
Gone the Masters touch in oil
Annointed with his maddened aire,
Wilding eyes of palest blue
Strawberry his touseled hair.
Pointilism's Prince no more
Adorns high Artesanian throne,
Wretchedly we mortals weep
Where giants, once, would boldly roam.
M.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
Gone is he with flourished brush
Gone to ether, turned to dust,
Left are but his remnant strokes
On canvass old, congealed with must.
Gone the Masters touch in oil
Annointed with his maddened aire,
Wilding eyes of palest blue
Strawberry his touseled hair.
Pointilism's Prince no more
Adorns high Artesanian throne,
Wretchedly we mortals weep
Where giants, once, would boldly roam.
M.
Reactionary pondering to Patrick Wolff's great poem...
"Van Gogh's Cafe Lights".
Request permission to use this poem