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They lived like paupers
Their only wealth in pen or paint or piano
Nights alone in rooms lit by candle
Wanting, waiting for
The right word or colour or note
Some line that would strike a chord
In a stunned passerby
Mozart removed his rings
To show there was no magic in his music, just him
Van Gogh, starved, cut off his ear
And now we revere the madness
The swirling stars, the swelling chords
Your belated accolades mean little
You missed the connection 
And they died as they lived, alone


About writehandedgirl

Sarah is a writer who is passionate about social justice, feminism, politics, and cats. She is a columnist and poet and currently lives in Nelson. You can follow Sarah on Twitter (@_writehanded_) or read more of her writing at


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