My Lasting Minutes

In fields of gold beneath a swirling sky,  
Vincent dreamed in color, bold and high.  
But while he lived, the world was blind,  
To the storming beauty in his mind.

With every stroke of pain and hue,  
His starry nights and iris blue,  
Misunderstood, he bore his plight,  
Alone, adrift in darkest night.

The echoes of his somber cries,  
Unheard until his demise.  
And only then, the world took heed,  
Admiring the brilliance they’d once made bleed.

How quickly turn the tides of fate,  
From cold disdain to celebrate.  
A master now, revered and known,  
His tortured path to greatness shown.

His canvases, once scorned with spite,  
Now hang as beacons of his light.  
Yet in this fame, this late acclaim,  
We find our grace, our deepest shame.