Lamentation for a Lost Friend

A Poem

At Eternity’s Gate by Vincent Van Gogh

Madness, utter madness; you can see it in his eyes. 
I hate him not; but madness? That in him I most despise.
His soul is buried seven-hundred feet below his skin,
No real person dares come out, nor e’er does one go in.

Look to those surrounding him and tell me what you see:
A thousand faces just like his, souls under lock and key.
For when one lives beside a man whose soul no entrance bears,
What else but to keep to oneself and be likewise unshared?

His father might have once known joy; his wife might know her pain;
But children’s eyes unveil a truth which words do not explain.
His son has never known of joy, nor knows he is in pain;
Considering his life the norm, he smiles under strain.

How bitter and how long the road ‘tween now and when he knows.
Will everyone not tell him that his father is his foe?
Or how shall I, with pen and ink, declare it unto him?
In agony I’m cursed to see, not say, these tidings grim.

What love can wrinkled fleshlings, void of soul, save for a mote—
And that imprisoned leagues below facades acquired by rote—
E’er hope to give another? For not one can give himself!
His self is just the thing he’s lost; if not, he’d have his health.

This empty man puts on a face which says, “I know the way.”
Of all he knows, what he knows not is what he means by “I.”
He’s made himself a nothing-man; a puppet with no strings.
But this Pinocchio was first a man and then a thing.

He might have spoken with a voice, but now he flaps his lips.
He stands as on a mighty throne, but I behold him stripped.
The emperor outwears his flesh by hate he holds within
Reflected back by those who see his ever-ragged skin.

Be still you fool! Shut up your mouth! Say not another word!
For what comes out of you is cursed. Be holy and unheard.
Take off your clothes of pretense, be naked and ashamed;
For nakedness which knows itself accepts the bitter blame.

You’ve sinned my friend, as have we all; accept the wretched truth.
Quit running from yourself as from the pain of a pulled tooth.
Your sinful member, once removed, can do you no more harm.
To love at last lose everything, cut not just hand but arm.

What need does all this money serve? What purpose in your fame?
Your followers are loveless slaves, they do not know your name.
Such fortune is no friend of yours, it chains you to your grave.
Why wait for Christmas ghosts? Hear me now, and now be saved.

I pray for you, I plead for you, I beg for your dark soul.
I hate you not; I love you, though my heart is hard and cold.
I fear my prayers are impotent, by no fault of my Lord,
But by the fault of my own hands, chiefly to be abhorred.

Your eyes inspired me to this. My rage longs for your soul.
Your machinations cover over what is beautiful.
Come back…be still…you do not have to run.
You have a loving Father; you are a loving son.