With child like
Innocence, his brush
Stroked the canvass,
Leaving colors that one
Would have thought was
Childlike.

Each stroke, each sweep,
Destined to leave a mark,
When combined, undressed,
Revealing his soul, to
Be scrutinized, mocked,
Ridiculed.

Through this turmoil,
He persisted, from
Canvass to canvass,
Countless paintings,
Countless images, each
Baring his soul, in a
Different light.

He toiled, he struggled,
He labored, he loved.
So deeply he loved,
He severed an ear.

Passion abound in this
Obsessed mind, never ceasing,
Never wavering, continuously
Pounding inside his temples.
To be released by the discharge
Of a gun.

Questions left by death of
This disturbed genius;
will remain unanswered forever.
Was it his creativity,
Was it the love of a woman,
That led to that fateful discharge?
We will never know.

Sleep well in your eternal bed,
Allow slumber to be your comforting
Arms.