Today I walked to the park and back
And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions
All the trees had a purplish tint
And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off melting dew
When I got home
I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality
And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head.

The world that was quiet is humming again
I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines
Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion
The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight
Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion
And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window
Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin
Clouds pixelate with diamond edges
Voices ring out in a flurry
And there isn't a soul in sight.

So I breathe in the air
And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again
Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one
Filaments in the vibrant violence
Until the summer fades away again.

I gaze the wheat field
gusts of wind erupt and impede to the very end
crows take flight towards the blood red Sun
he calls them back
rests his weary hands and tired eyes
before the long walk into town
his silhouette fades as I awaken
to view the captured image that hangs
from my wall

"Artists...artists are like butterflies...
They have delicate hearts
But this society can't handle them..."
My mother answered as I told her
about Vincent van Gogh...
The Starry Night painter
was once said to be happy in London ...
With a rainbow heart and sky mind
He drenched the canvas with his emotions
People unaware of this legend
put him in an asylum...
'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe!
But he painted...as paints and brushes
were still there...just like his brother.
He was 37... when voices were all over his mind
It was not easy to stop them...
So he picked up the gun...
And the bullet went straight to that golden heart
I wonder how many colors died that day....?

A starry night he did proclaim
with hues and stokes so untamed,
he layed on with palette knife.

The twirls and swirls of gold
above the dormant village old,
despite his own inner strife.

Stars played cheerfully around,
restful hues on slumbering town
as though, sleeping with his wife.

While the sun awaited to arise
shadows of wheat black to his eyes,
he turned the heavens into wildlife.

Locked in his cold dismal room,
he painted not of his true gloom,
but of a dreamy, wonderous life.