The often questioned mind,
contemplates in complication
away from our eyes, unkind.
With only the whispering silence
as his faithful companion.
The solitude is his to claim,
his sanctuary, a birth of brilliance.
And we, with only ourselves to blame,
for being blind - to his ideas
in his absence of eloquence.
For we hear with only ears that function
to sharps, minors, and the dissonant chromaticism
but hearts, deaf
to the melody
And eyes that briefly bestow praise,
like heavy, overwhelming bells
to the visible colours on his canvas,
but not to the wondrous story
that he tells.
He is the often questioned mind
away from eyes, unlearnt.
Eluded, for his seeming lack of sanity
that, to us, renders him inhuman.
Alas, the misfortune is ours!
He will paint
and play on at all cost
And while we resume our unjust thoughts
'tis not his,
but our humanity
which is lost.