Fragment 10.147

My story lies in the sorrowful

Screech of the violin’s mourning strings,

The vibrato of lung’s

Expressive dreams

When trilled to such

Passed history.

In the cascading twilight

Between what was

And what’s to be.

Yet,

They all believe

They’re the author,

Of the epic tale

Of the sun cresting

On morning’s dewy mountain top

Never seen by man.

I’m sorry every daling

That never heeds

My warning,

Men don’t dwell at such extremes

Until they learn to see before learning to speak.

You are barely treading the surface

Of the soul’s design.
(P.s. I don’t believe it’s wise to tell someone with the same mix and revolutionary mind as Van Gogh : they don’t feel the right way. You’d be beyond wrong. I can cut my ear off for a returned devotion if I want to love like that, thank you. Apologies if you don’t like love’s give and take mentality  xoxo)

 

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