It was the light that told Vincent,

the one which always told him the truth

reflected his soul’s desire,

the glistenings of his mind,

that this mass of  gnarled roots

would be his last vision.

 

He could feel the gun smoke

creeping into his soul,

corrupting his thoughts,

the very rays of his world,

even his beloved

hog hair brushes and pigments

 

as he walked the Rue Daubigny

pass the Church at Auvers

he needed to canvas in June

when the flint of its history,

death, faith, passion and beauty

impelled him to create,

 

pass the wheat field absent of crows

which made the world seem more

beautiful with its darkness

hovering over the light of July,

diminished now to ordinary light,

smoke, haze and fog.

 

He felt his world constricted to

a blue room with a blue bed,

a blue chair wedged in a corner

draped in blue shadows

which could not be mixed

to the perfect colors.

 

When he saw the gnarled roots

exposed in late afternoon July beams

he knew that he would not live

to see the first dawn of August,

that this would be his last

perfect beautiful, silent spot.

 

He painted smelling the gun smoke coming,

the smoke turning into a bullet

as he passionately tried to  capture

life itself frantically and fervently rooting itself,

as it were, in the earth and yet being

half torn up by the storm.