The Wheat Field by Vincent Van Gogh
The golden stems they stood up tall
The sun was rising in the eastThe morning breeze caused the wheat to dance
Creating a visual feast
His asylum cell was cold & dark
He was a prisoner trapped within
But through the iron barred window frame
His creativity would begin
His eyes and immagination
Would take a journey beyond that cell
Then colours would dance on canvass
Transporting him from his hell
By KMFInspired by picture prompt at Magpie Tails
