Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight
Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by
From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think
Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been
A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page
Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been
To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go
With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
