A paintstroke,
a revolver,
twelve withering sunflowers
a man devoid of his mind.
YOU ARE READING
yours very truly, vincent
Poetry"there may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke." - vincent van gogh. my entry for _theskyisthelimit_ 's 100 poems challenge. (c) mockingjayde 2013
