Martyr

He died for our sins…& it’s not who you think.
He lived his entire life out there on the brink.

Existing at the edge of society.
Each interaction rife with anxiety.

He lived in his work where he always felt safe.
Yet at his work, elitists, would coldly chafe.

He was ever fighting for some shade of sane.
Still, he worked thru mania, both wax & wane.

He enshrined the normal with unmatched ardor.
Asylums? Hardships? Just made him look harder.

He had ginger hair & pale blue, spritely, eyes.
He left after painting his black & blue skies.

From an inhumane life; humanity forged.
On his art, to this day, has a wide world gorged.

Too little, too late for poor Vincent’s disease.
A century plus hence, mad brilliance still pleas.