Dear Van Gogh I write in crimson

There are yellows, pinks and greens in the sky just like there are reds and violets in the sea

They remain latent to the perfect pair of eyes visible only for the insane enough to see

Each strike and welt on the blank canvas is sublime

Despite being raked in crisis and born of pain

An inspiration for lesser humans to write and rhyme

To not care of perfecting the curves while slapping the paint

But do I dare wish that the world accepted you as you are?

Selfishly not cause your angst and suffering is my muse

without it a white blotch on a black wash would be a star

not the vibrant yellow and orange scythe set in blue

I revel in the art you create while your sensibilities sink

Your being burns and I warm my hands on it in delight 

Your tears diffuse my colours and blood pigments my ink

Intoxicated in this smoke I squander away my night

An aspiring aficionado of your name 

VR