“I wanted to defend myself and couldn’t do it.” Vincent van Gogh
One hundred twenty-six years ago.
Today.
The future of dreams,
The dissolution of friendships,
Isolation and
Abandonment—my yellow house
And blood.
Loneliness
Is a civil war—
Vast multitudes
Dead
And I am maimed;
I hear echoing emptiness like irises
Writhing in the sun.
Overshadowed and insecure,
Bitterness
Leaves its mark —
Compelling hate and glory,
A luminous shout
From the withering sky.
This is the story I don’t like to tell.