[UnbornBuddha]

Oil on canvas, bringing life to void abstractions.
Voila! Paint florets growing in the soil and granite.
Creativity stems from the burning loins of passion
And redirecting it to depict visions in a clairvoyant fashion.
Listen to the voice of this planet, disappointment and solace.
Bitter alkaloids to the palate,
The impetus for my hand to employ the palette.
Each stroke a cosmic voyage of madness,
Culminating an artist’s vantage point in stratums.
Aurora borealis portrayal. Immersive magical fable
Casted from the imagination of an interactive creator.
Inspired by multifaceted organic objects
But not bounded by panoramic concepts.
Tracing the contours of the shadows of space
Pulling from a black hole—a shape
What emerges is a six dimensional image.
I sense and see it, but illustrating it is in the realm of physics.
I spend sleepless nights trying to conjure it into art.
Yet, every attempt looks like a monster in the dark
Grotesque to the standards of the stars.
Van goth’s ‘Starry night’ is staggering from far
Universally eliciting catharsis in the heart.
Counterfeit pieces bartered in the bazaar
Hanging on my wall, next to mannequin dolls
Juxtaposed next to Icarus’ gargantuan fall
To the chasm cobras and tarantulas crawl.
Bask in it all! From the Renaissance man who happens to draw
In symmetrical law, i.e. Vitruvian man and its negation of flaw,
To Sistine Chapel’s characterization of god.
Down to the Neanderthal’s skull. Primitive measurements
Evolved into the Lascaux’s Paleolithic renderings.
My own Avant-garde stylistic preference
Places Claude Monet’s work as unparalleled.
Yet, the Baroque of Rembrandt is from another realm
Unfathomable geometric planes of existence.
Moved, I finally begin a painting and finish.
What manifests is sacred and wicked
A lady’s visage that I exhibit for all to see
No words, but a monologue is screamed
Azure and crimson countenance catalogues her dreams.
Neo-impressionists balk at the vociferous expressions
Ignorant impressions, shunning the quiescence quintessence
This is when pointillism becomes pointless with obsolescence.
The coalescing of Nicomachean ethics with the allegory of spring
Every piece plucked from a transitory heart string.
As seen in Delacroix's ‘Death of the Sardanapalus’.
Artists are inherently blind like that spot in the optic disc
But by being conduits they can warp your consciousness.