What woe, could be, beyond life lost
In the chase to, passion’s overkill
An avant-garde soul, paid free-will’s cost
With a sublime sorrow, to soul’s fill!
O’er heart’s palette, pain’s nuanced hues
Spilled over blood, of Van Gogh’s heart
His ‘Sunflowers’ still, smell of blues
Swear “True pain’s flair, is a class apart!”
Between bacchus, brothels… sweet banes
Stood torn apart, Pilgrim of Stains
The ‘Wheat Fields’, which he farmed, with pain
Still sway, in awe, of his legerdemain!
Genius is a, Child of Misery
How could world, give in, to renegades!
To then dig out, of time’s debris
The glory of The Starkest Shades!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra