FYI, I love Van Gogh, but I believe some paintings of life, the ones not made on canvas, are even more beautifully dark.
She’s earned it enough.
Has given everything.
Taken all the pain.
Waiting for the good
That’s still hanging in the air,
Teasing her,
So she moves toward it.
Always, always.
Praying, crying, screaming.
She has earned it enough now.
Her body took every blow,
Marked from every side.
Her mind exhausted.
Her life dragged
By the fragile strands of her arms,
Through the mud and the rain,
Under the thunder
And the heavy breeze.
But the sun,
It keeps itself away.
So she loved,
She learned to love winter,
For its icy elegance.
And finally she realized
She never stopped.
Not even once.
Even without the sun, she did it.
In a darker painting,
But a truer realm.
It’s not Monet’s gardens,
Nor Van Gogh’s trembling sky.
It’s chaos and disorder,
Fog and bitterness,
Grey and black,
Ice and fear.
But in the middle, a silhouette,
One that has learned to walk,
Still standing tall, despite it all.
Yes, she’s earned it enough.
She has her rare painting,
One that embodies everything she longed for,
Without ever truly touching it.
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