Death of a Painter

I will admit That once in my life I was hailed as a lunatic, Watching those bright yellow lights Dance across the sky Like drunken fireflies On a clear summer night In 1889. And on my window, facing east, I saw a fading memory And wondered When I'd meet my grand finale. Would I be with my brother and my family Seeing me descend into eternal sleep? Would my life's work be pinned to the wall Like all the Japanese prints I bought To admire the vivid gifts Of nature? Would strangers watch in admiration, A farewell salute to the master of post-impressionism, His final breaths like the finest moments Depicted in his painting: Still and quiet, Yet vibrantly alive? Or would I be bleeding to death, Crawling from my killer's bredth, Soul escaping, body wrecked, Pockets empty, broke and broken-hearted?

Tell me, Will I still be hailed as a lunatic, Chasing dreams across a field, Burning out like a candle wick, The madman who somehow Befriended Gauguin, Now missing half an ear? Or will I not be hailed at all: Just a blink in space, a drop in time, Long forgotten: Just another humble painter dying?