violet_mischief

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.