A Painter took his Brush one Night—
And swirled the Heavens—bold—
In swirling blues—and purples bright—
Where lesser eyes grew cold—
He sketched the swirling—violet storm—
The flaming blossoms—blazed—
And morning fields—of amber—warm—
In strokes that never phased—
The World looked on—with puzzled stare—
And called his Vision—mad—
His portraits—hung in empty air—
No frame—no name—they had—
Yet Eyes he painted—watch us still—
Through nameless—halls of Time—
They know the Darkness—in the Will—
And Beauty—in its prime—
They would not hear—what he would say—
Nor grasp the Sanity—
He suffered—for—to light the Day—
And set the captive—free—
Perhaps—they listen—now—he’s gone—
On some Starry—final Night—
When Hope had fled—and Love withdrawn—
This Earth too dim—for Light—
How strange—that Genius—should depart—
In self-inflicted—woe—
This Sphere—was never framed—to heart
A Soul—so bright—so low—
We understand—too late—his Art—
The Thorn—the Rose—crushed—low—
Upon the virgin—Snow—apart—
Where only Stars—can know.

:: 02.15.2026 ::