The Death Of The Unknown Poet Van Gogh

His name and words meant nothing to the city
but,
those who heard each line like an on going tide
were brought to shark-skin clarity.
The streets filled with tears,
women came with excitement.
But,
none of his books sold.
This is the price he had to pay for mocking death,
his genius falling through the cracks in the side-walks.
Another Van Gogh goes un-noticed.
Like so many young artists before him who drowned in the mediocrity around them.
But Van Gogh,
I know your genius.
I feel it in me ever day
Its furious and unforgiving flow
that will not save us
or the ear that you pierced with the blade that you stole from her.
The wheel is still turning for us but,
the gears are starting to lock.
You were not going to end it like him.
No.
Not with a gun or in the wheat fields that still grows to pay homage to his blood.
The concrete was where the conception of you're demons took place and its here that you still fill you're pockets with the words that form lines in the eye of time.
You were going to perform the final ritual,
Strange celebration.
And they were going to wonder how another Van Gogh receded into the night,
Un-noticed.

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