What If Kafka and Van Gogh met?

If Kafka and Van Gogh could meet,

two wanderers on weary feet,

they’d sit beneath a star-strewn sky,

both haunted souls, both asking why.

Kafka, burdened by unseen chains,

by webs of fear and quiet pains

each word he wrote a careful sigh,

a way to ask, “Why must we die?”

In life’s cold grasp, he slipped, withdrew,

lost in thoughts no one could view.

And Van Gogh, with colors fierce and bright,

painted suns that burned through night

a trembling hand, a heart so wide,

yet always just on the outside.

In every brushstroke, love and plea,

a soul laid bare for none to see.

They bore their wounds in silence deep,

in crowded rooms, alone they'd keep,

their heavy hearts, their fragile minds,

adrift, unseen, in binding lines.

But oh, the love they could not know

how now, we see them, feel their glow,

how Kafka’s sorrow, strange and wild,

has found a home in every child

who’s felt alone, cast off, unheard,

finding comfort in his word.

And Vincent, star of skies so vast,

his colors, wounds, and shadows cast

we hold him close, in awe and grace,

find warmth within his painted space.

If they could sense this boundless light,

the love we give, the way they write

their names upon our tender hearts,

their wounds are where our healing starts.

So Kafka, Vincent, here we stand,

holding tight your fragile hands.

In every line and color’s sway,

you live, you love, you find your way.

-jane..