Van Gogh

A crimson poppy skims his calf. Its slender stem bends in the breeze, dancing. Petals soft as a lover’s touch open upward. The edges form graceful, imperfect arches. Breathe slow, breathe madness and sleep.

He closes his eyes to see blue night. Stars set the sky alive, reflecting in the water. Whirls of light spinning; all the world spinning. Below, a couple stroll the bank. He’d worked by heavenly orbs and earthly candle.

The brushes are fraying, ragged now. He runs them through his fingers; feels rough edges against his skin. Golden wheat heads sway in the blazing sun. The canvas stretches with the field around him. Above, fly arching birds. A reaper struggles to reach day’s end.

The colors burn inside him, bleed at the edges. His brushstrokes, his heartbeats, fall uneven. He stumbles back, finds the door; the stairs. His paint drags out to black.