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My dearest Vincent, what did you mean by every flower?
Every hour you spent crying, I would have held your hand.
I’m ashamed to say, that still today the world is full of passings,
And like yours, they’re planned.
“The sadness will last forever,” you said as you drifted off into that starry night,
Unfortunately, I am ashamed to say, you were right.
Every petal in every field that you captured
I see as pieces of your fractured soul.
Those people never meant to tear you apart,
They just lacked understanding,
They saw your blues, and greens and yellows all as greys.
But they drifted off away, nameless.
And you are standing in galleries all over, being preserved.
Everyone has their way to keep their spirit alive; you ate yellow paint to thrive.
Believing its colour and hue could bring happiness to you -
We must respect your truth.
Hundreds of letters, counting at nine hundred and three
You’d think one would see the pain you poetically wrote,
And not leave the feelings as just words you spoke.
You’d hope one would at least offer a hand,
Rather than just leaving you standing, alone.
One hundred and twenty eight years later, I am proud to say, your paintings and words
Have been preserved.
Your yellows will never grey.