Van Gogh, Chatterton, and the Tortured Horror of Romantics

They just were never treated
and were consumed by the loneliness of their artistic expression in the vacuum of misunderstanding
and imploded on that dark hole ideal that is never satiated or mitigated with.

I hope they find home
in the release of their spirits from the blossomed flora of their temple indentations.

A muse
is an airy thing pumped of helium fumes sift from the end of a candle-
light vigil for the designer's soul that hurdled the bosomed locket for the weariness pressing it dry.

It is only captured at first puff,
then buoys itself in the troposphere on the passion to catch it

until the cocained composer flares further from withdrawal and prays to heaven to lower this cloud near the thrust hand drawing incantations in the sky.

Though it all becomes paint or writ
until the countries smother the artist's side and encrypt a melancholy in praise of the proofs of his suffering.

And so in death, we have martyrs of ingenuity legend
and the bravado trickling from the shaken leaves as the muse bursts in the sky once no longer pursued by the addicted usurper.