There may be a great fire in our hearts,
yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it,
and passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.
-Vincent Van Gogh
Behind Vincent's eyes was a vision of fire,
of London's clan-destiny, sure consummation
of towers and cobblestone, markets and monuments,
blazing.
Rollicking into the sky were the spires,
cathedrals and clocks wrapped in beautiful fires,
the cries of the people igniting
a chorus of praise.
Orchestral
inevitable
a final endeavor
that climaxed so suddenly, certainly, bloodily -
blinding the stars like the poppies
that burst on the mind with their violent
ecstasy
chemistry
heat, fuel, and oxygen
pounding again
in a howling refrain:
this was meant to be.
Yet somehow it chilled on the tips
of his fingers, and Vincent was never relieved;
for the paintings that haunt us,
that wound us and taunt us,
are those that we never made.
