Vincent is framed by Paul, his luminous blue

glows from the wall of a millionaire’s dying dream

shaped like a Roman villa from Herculaneum

perched on the cliffs above Malibu.

Madness extols itself in perfect form –

there is no vision more extreme, complete

than these last lingering flowers of summer’s heat

becoming and dying, at the same time.

The alchemy of paint’s beyond analysis –

Van Gogh, insane, with buzzing in his ear,

places a daub of white just here, and here

there is a point of pain that must persist.

The canvas, not seen by Paul nor sold by Vincent,

hangs on the wall, elusive, strange, magnificent.

—Michael Warren—


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Ojo Del Lago
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