Touching his canvas like a kiss
Soft and lingering
Or tantalizingly brief Is his brush
A baton conducting unfinished silent symphony.
As nomadic wind
Always refused to sit and pose.
Mixed in the palette
To be released
Like a caged song bird
To carol so sweetly again.
From that dark room of his mind
He grew a flower
That will never die.
Though the stolen scent
Will remain with his lost love
Along with moonlit rapture
In her eye.
As she haunts his masterpiece
In her flowing gown
Cascading of white
Under that chandelier
That he called starry night.
When his sanity finally faded
And desperation invaded
That troubled soul.
Black cloud marauded
As thunder applauded
Mocking the wonder of swirling pain.
As heaven's tears
Did masquerade as rain.
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Comments about this poem (The Artist by Kevin East )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(August 5, 1934)
Krishna Shivkumar yadav
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