Squabbling for scraps in the foreground,
this battle for nourishment
amid winged flurry
and beak-stab,
the background
blue shading to silvery sea
beneath which
we all know
dragons still lurk and shift slowly
like scaly mountains,
all gently washed
by intense light
Illumine
spilling through the cold-cracked cloud,
all this encircled by ——————–
No; wait; what’s all this shit?
Why must the landscape be
a psychic one?
The birds,the water,
the sky,all the falling light,
these all exist
Independently,
outside utterly
of all us feeble seers,
trembling on the land’s edge
in our frantic, grubby searches
for validation, justification,
and power…
It’s fucking pathetic.Christ,be
alive, human,be strong;
these lungs that wheeze,
the eye that sees,
the hand that picks and writes.
This is enough.
Learn.
.
Niall Griffiths
Vincent van Gogh, At Eternity’s Gate
.