The roots
Gnarled and blue
The veins of life
Bared but true
What is this thing
We cannot hold
Yet in innocence
To bare its soul.
Auvers-Sur-Oise
The village banks
That beauty gives
Without need of thanks
The rapid flow
Of colours born
Upon this day
The thoughts are torn.
The clouds above
Move with breeze
Each brushstroke
The canvas tease
Pressure building
In a wounded mind
Temples throbbing
Heartbeat divine.
Then calmness
Like a summers day
Chose to take
The pain away
Readied with
A gun in hand
Genius took
Its final stand.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: January 24th, 2026 03:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
A fine write N - and tragic end.
Thanking you and much appreciated, his final painting
This is a wonderful poem so deeply symbolic it relies on colors, metaphor and history to transform a tragic life into the beauty of art and now a poem. A fave
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