I love a dead soldier

who fought with hands

stained with a butterfly's dust

and eyes that held all the ink

to curve a galaxy in dance.

I dream of him painting

because he painted my dream

and here I sit without

his kiss

but the memory of his hunger

for heaven, for love,

for the bitter thorn in between

that makes it all so beautiful.

If no-one saw his fire then,

I am his charcoal remains -

a love that has not stroked the face

but the anchors left by his frames.

And no one could love as much as he!

Without fear, without the opium of tears,

with veins that flow

the moment you think you heart could close

forever

to burst open again in promise:

there is something unknown to you

that shares

the writhing desire, the almost delirious,

the madness of life

that has left a claw mark on your soul.

We are but ghosts in our waking worlds

but you, Vincent, you were a man.