That does not keep me from having a terrible need of - shall I say the word - religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars. <br />- Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother <br /> <br />The town does not exist <br />except where one black-haired tree slips <br />up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. <br />The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. <br />Oh starry night! This is how <br />I want to die. <br /> <br />It moves. They are all alive. <br />Even the moon bulges in its orange irons <br />to push children, like a god, from its eye. <br />The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. <br />Oh starry starry night! This is how <br />I want to die: <br /> <br />into that rushing beast of the night, <br />sucked up by that great dragon, to split <br />from my life with no flag, <br />no belly, <br />no cry.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-starry-night-3/
