these feet once filled with rage
prowled familiar streets and lanes
in my dreams, in my drunken
hours desperate for love’s
embrace or a simple touch given
with meaning and deeply felt
against another solitary night.
was it madness that led
to endless flights of golden fields
armed with only brush and paint
eager to transform the landscapes
of my world, of my dreams while
you slept on silently and with ease
so exquisitely out of reach?
for vincent
