A canvas laid flat, with shapes in dispute,
A violet splotch, the scene's playful brute.
With rectangles rigid, in black-tie attire,
The purple blob grins, an impish liar.
Yellow stands firm, a king with no crown,
Beside the red's glow, a celestial gown.
But mischief, it blooms, in a violet hue,
A giggle in paint, a jester's debut.
The squares hold their breath, the lines stand in queue,
While violet dances, as if on cue.
The strokes tell a tale, in the old man's jest,
Of order and chaos, a visual test.
"Here's life," old man might quip, with a knowing smile,
"In boxes and blobs, and a violet's guile.
A world left behind, with its colors and shapes,
A mischief-maker, from which no one escapes."
So sing, oh sing, of the violet's play,
In a universe strict, where straight lines sway.
For in the old man's verse, as in art's bold riff,
There's wisdom in laughter, and truth in a tiff.
otoalchemist
