Vincent and I went for a walk

Put up the canvas, Vincent! A moon shall bloom

As this desperate evening grows

Let the brushes put on a symphony soon

And whisper this color to the yonder willow’s toes.

Hundred arts could I sacrifice;

thousands death shall my poetry die.

Colors on palette shall perish

while my muse would try

to punctuate the couplet that completes us

across oceans that are wide;

wider are the dreams when you ponder

“Ready the horses, Vincent. Woods are dark

and alone shall not my poetry wander.”





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s