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Vincent's Bedroom in Arles
by Ed Bennett

The bed is empty, Master,
blankets pulled to dented pillows,
cloak on a hook, pictures askew

but the window is open slightly,
a mere crack between panes
to allow the Muse her entrance
or view the evening riot of stars
with the diffractive vision of one
who seeks the common things,
communicates them in pigment
applied to a new reality.

Bed, chairs, night table,
a wooden floor's perspective
drafted with art school perfection –
a rustic room of promises,
deliberate Spartan design
to elude the many distractions.

Stars reeling in the night,
irises drawn to imagined breezes,
these will come in their time,
reach beyond the blue washed walls
that incubate their nascent imagery.

For now, Master, to bed,
the warm place of flowered scent
and a sky of stars more perfect
than our souls can create.


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