“The wheels have come off!”

Said Vincent Van Gogh.

Let’s paint them bright red

And take them to bed.

The truckload of junk

I keep under my bunk:

The baggage I choose

For I cannot lose

The memories of old

All outlined in bold,

Fields of vermilion:

Monet’s oblivion.

 

Where should I go

When the paintbrush won’t flow?

For lack of a rhythm

There opens a schism

In this place of drought

I struggle with doubt:

Try as I might

To let in the light

The dark closes in:

The shadows, they grin

As if to exalt

“You’ve ground to a halt!”

The wheels are all broken,

The rhythm has spoken.

The sky in cerise

A vision, of peace

 

MICHAEL McFADDEN