Not the, purple lure, of the lavenders
That sway, by madhouse, of Vincent
But how, render, duo distant, lucifers
On the, spent canvas, of my sacrament!

A mad colorist, never flirts, with themes
But, with the passion, of his shades
Who blasphemes, doctrines, is the one, who redeems
The final truth, from, sane, insane crusades!

They burst, from the heart, of my nihility
Like pines, with designs, of obelisks
To be farmed, from cipher, to infinity
My madness, is worth, all artistic risks!

If glory, is not, what they seek
Why they squirm, with the pain, of desire
May time redeem, their great, mystique
These Cypresses, Sigh, My Satire

© 2021 Vikas Chandra