He lost the battle in the cornfields when
the sky gave the crows a victory.
“What will be left of me,” he thought.
“My sorrow will last forever,” his last words.
He walked the starless streets of Auver a
pencil, sketchbook in hand and drew nothing.
The rows of lamplights receded,
becoming walls of yellow clay.
At home, he painted himself
with the bandaged ear and pipe.
In the morning, he stand in those once
glistening fields, with a revolver in hand.