Vincent

Orange, yellow, and red 
Swirled like a painter mixing his colors 
The brush strokes, light, heavy, loud 
A pallet of only the brightest colors 
Distracting him from the grip of life 
For he is only a boy, and growing up is the least of his concerns 

Blue, white, and black 
Stars speckle the sky, each one larger than the last 
Brush strokes of only the calmest colors 
Each stroke sends a new sense of peace to his heart 
For at his age, he’s no longer a boy, but a man yearning for his youth 

Red and black, when he’s alone 
For those are the only colors he sees anymore
A new sense of reality since the old one is no longer available to him 
Each stroke sends a new worry to his head
A new voice, a new reality 
For now, he’s no longer a boy, yet a man 
Yearning for the days he ran from.