Of Van Gogh and You
Being lost, and being alive, is floating away, Round the fingers, And the shoelaces. It feels strange; The incoherence of my heart And the chink of the broken glass. All the same. Van Gogh seems right, These days, On the loss & scarcity Of words, And a certain Starry Night. And it always reminds me Of the street lamps, Dying, And the candle, Putting an eulogy for them On fire. It always seemed right. The strange demeanor Of changing streets, And the dreams we dreamt During the famine, It all felt right. Paper cuts did hurt. On the edge of a midnight, The rusty strings Of long gone song, It did hurt, But was worth it. Was it? The stars, The moon, And the painful nothingness in between, Interlaced, Threw away the brush in haste, To create another soliloquy, On how the candle stopped breathing, In the midway, Seeing its reflection On the broken mirror. The sadness That the colors held today, On the branches Of Gogh's Almond trees, It did hurt, Unless I found The flower you gave me Last spring, Inside my pocket. Red always smelt of you, And reminded me On the blankest days, That we were enough. Together, We were home.
Nisarga Sinha is an amateur poet from India. She writes because sometimes thoughts can be suffocating and little things intrigue her. When she is not writing, she is reading fanfictions or pretending to sleep while she clearly can't and daydreaming. You can find her on Twitter as @nisarga_sinha.
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